


However I Fall

by mia_ugly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also Non-Portrait Fic, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Happy Ending, Libraries!, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Portrait Fic, Sexual Tension, ghosts!, magic!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one timeline, Severus lives.  In the other, he dies.  </p>
<p>In both, he falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No betas so far, so all the mistakes are my own. If anyone is interested, I can pay you with smutty fanfic.

_The first thing he sees upon waking is the ceiling – patched with metal, scorched with magic._

_He is alive._

_He is alive._

_As he moves, the pain shows up, a late arrival to a wedding.  He touches his neck, his jaw, and finds them crusted with dried blood.  He turns his head and vomits as pain clenches in his stomach like a sticky fist.  For a long while he lies there, willing his heart to stop beating. If the War is over, either way, he is a dead man.  Better it happen here, alone.  Better here than in front of a squad of Aurors.  Better here than under the gasping, starving mouth of a Dementor._

_His heart keeps beating._

The Great Hall has become the beating heart of Hogwarts, friends and families clutching at each other in sorrow and joy.  Ron and Hermione have their fingers tightly laced, and Harry watches them - the impenetrable mesh of early love.  Ginny's gone off with her mum somewhere, and Harry feels about one hundred years older. The ashes of countless Unforgivables grind between his teeth, and there is blood on his face.

On his hands.

Some of it is his. Most of it isn't.

Harry thinks of Snape, then, a twisting knife of sorrow and anger both.  Dark hair and darker eyes bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.  Snape, who mostly likely lies there still. 

"I've got to go," he tells his friends, words pulled helplessly from his mouth, and they do not try to stop him.

_After awhile – it might be hours, it might be days – he rolls onto his stomach.  Though the pain blinds him momentarily, he pushes himself to his hands and knees. The floor is made of wooden planks, mismatched grain; he stares at them while slivers work their way into his palms._

_His hands are very white._

_His hands are very white._

Harry takes the stairs three steps at a time, panic sparking like alcoholic bubbles through his veins. Snape is dead, Harry knows he's dead, but for some reason he needs to get to the Shack.  It feels ungrateful - no, unbearable - to leave Snape's body there for even a minute longer.

Snape is in the corners of his eyes, the dark vessels in his eyelids. As Harry runs, he glances down at his hands, hands which once tried to hold together the pieces of a ragged throat.  He follows the dark brown river of his life line, love line, the places blood ran and went dry, and in his brief moment of distraction -

\- Harry Potter falls.

An uneven step, a piece of stone - he trips and falls and a NO breaks like sweat from the earth, trembles through fault-lines of old magic and blighted love (on the other side of the mirror, a dark-haired, long-limbed boy continues onward, footing sure and steady.  On the other side of the mirror, Harry Potter does not fall.).

_As he gets to his knees, the pain rolls over him like a red wave, and he vomits bile again upon the floor.  His stomach is empty.  His head.  His heart._

_He makes it to his feet, and falls.  The hard floor jars his hip bone, and he lies there, catching his breath.  He raises himself up, and tries again.  As the room stops spinning, and his vision stops flashing before his eyes, he realizes that he is not alone._

_There are wands._

_In the dim light, it is impossible to tell if servants of the Order or servants of the Dark Lord stand before him, and Snape tells himself it does not matter.  Either one will strike him down, spit on him and call him traitor.  On a larger scale, however, the outcome of the war matters a great deal, and he tries to put voice to this belief, scrape out syllables with a tongue gone dry and bloodless._

_“Who – ” is all he manages before coughing overtakes him, so violent he expects to feel fresh blood rolling down his neck._

_“You’ll shut your mouth, traitor,” a voice in the darkness replies.  No answers there, then._

_“Just do it,” someone else mutters, “His life is the least that he can pay.”_

_“Who won?” Snape manages, throat raw and on fire._

_There is general laughter from the two wizards - three? - in front of him._

_“The wrong side for you, mate.”_

Harry Potter falls and his hands jar hard against the rough ground.  He falls and his blood mingles with Snape's across the creases of his fingers, the bones of his wrist.

"Fuck," Harry swears, pushing himself up, getting his feet under him. 

He doesn't know he's lost three seconds.  And those three seconds are enough to save a man or murder him (the mirror cracks, splits evenly down the middle as Harry runs, runs and doesn't look back.).

The Whomping Willow lets him pass without so much as a rustle of its leaves, and then Harry is in the shack and there are _wands_ , wands have beaten him there.  He had expected silence, silence and black rooms, but something is off. Something's gone wrong.

"Just bloody do it. Fucking scum."

"You know what, I just might."

_“Just bloody do it.  Fucking scum.”_

_“You know what, I just might.”_

_Snape raises his head, briefly and blissfully pain free, surging with adrenaline.  He will not die with his eyes on the ground._

_“Just bloody do it,” he sneers, as lights flash behind his eyes and there is the sound of a struggle, and the pain comes back, wicked sharp and in fine form as ("Stupefy!") as ("Expeliarmus!") as -_

_As Harry Potter throws himself in front of Snape._

"No!" Harry roars as the curse flashes green and gold across the shack, and Snape locks eyes with him for one heartbeat of time - pupils blown wide and dark with surprise - before being thrown back across the room.

"No!" Harry says again, and wandless magic spikes through his veins, rattling the floorboards, breaking the windows, ripping the foundation from the black earth.

One of the wizards runs, but two are falling, landing hard against the filthy walls.  Harry doesn't pay them any thought. He moves to Snape's side, a bundle of black cloth and grey skin.  Without thinking, he grabs him, digs shaking fingers into the bones of his narrow shoulders, his wrists where a weak pulse stutters and slows -

"No," Harry murmurs, "No -"

_“Don’t touch him!  Don’t you - bloody –”_

_Harry’s hand is hard against his waist, other hand outstretched and ready with his wand, and he smells like blood and smoke and lilac flowers.  Snape’s head falls weakly to the boy’s shoulder, and god, his hair._

_“It’s all right, you’re all right,” Harry whispers, while the other wizards scatter like ashes to the wind, but there is a hand on Snape’s waist, holding him upright, and Harry Potter, warm as honey against his skin.  “You’re okay.”_

_“Who –” Snape manages, losing the small threads of consciousness he has left._

_“We did,” Harry laughs, turning his head and gusting hot breath over Snape’s unlovely face, “It was us.  We won.”_

"It was us," Harry whispers to the man in his arms. "We won." 

Snape tries to shape words with lips gone bloodless, and Harry thinks that if he just holds on tight enough, he can keep the life within this skinny body, hold it like water in his cupped hands.  He feels the shifting world beneath them, the heartbeat of the soil, the forest, the floorboards all reverberating against his body, and he wills that heartbeat into Snape's narrow chest.  He can save him, he knows he can.

In this, and in so much else, Harry Potter is wrong.

*            *            *

This is how it happens.

There is a War.  It ends, for most people it ends, but for some people it doesn’t.   Some people die, and some people walk away, but some people never walk away, or if they do the War follows them.  Some people close their blinds at night, but the War keeps peeling them back and smashing the glass and climbing through.  Some people lock their doors, but the War picks locks with bony fingers and is in, _is inside._

When all is said and done, Harry and Ron and Hermione – not to mention the dozens of other students whose studies were disrupted by falling Headmasters and Cruciatus curses – come back to Hogwarts. They have to take their NEWTS after all, and even though Harry could probably write his own ticket (already the Ministry is clammering to make him a poster boy), he’s too exhausted to even begin to think about his future.  He is eighteen years old, and it strikes him that he’s been living on borrowed time for his entire life.  He wakes up at the Burrow one night, nightclothes sopping wet with nightmares and clinging to his skin, and realizes he has no idea what he’s going to do with the rest of his life because for the past five years he didn’t know for certain that he’d _have_ a rest of his life.  He’s alive and Voldemort is dead and all is well – or at least all _should_ be well, but it’s hard for Harry to breath lately, ash and burning buildings in his lungs.  There are angry ghosts everywhere, and he knows he isn’t the only person who’s haunted, but sometimes he can barely pull back his bed curtains, convinced Remus Lupin will be standing, bleeding, on the other side.

Sometimes the most basic spells elude him, wand sputtering like a dying streetlight.   Sometimes he has dreams, magic raging through his bones like an angry sea.

In September, he wakes to find half the mirrors in Hogwarts cracked finely down the middle, lightning-bolt shaped shards scattered across the floor.

In December, he blows a hole through the wall of the Arithmancy classroom when someone behind him accidentally drops a textbook.

In March, he leaves Hogwarts forever.

It comes as a surprise, even to him. In this, and so much else really, it's all down to Snape (back up, start earlier).

In February, then: Harry receives a letter informing him that Severus Snape - after nearly one year in Azakaban - is at last standing trial for crimes committed during the war, and Harry is invited to testify. Hermione and Ginny both offer to come with him, but it's something he feels he has to do by himself, and he cannot say why.  He is offered a portkey but decides to take the train into London, the everyday average Muggle train, and on the journey he feels something inside his chest ease and give slightly.  It is - it is wholly new to be anonymous, to see only the occasional nod of recognition or misplaced gratitude, and Harry feels like he could ride the train forever, loaded up on Muggle sweets and exhausted and blessedly ordinary.

King's Cross is strange and familiar all at once, and Harry buys a massive coffee from a vendor and regrets it almost immediately; his hands shake as he takes the tube to Whitehall, and he gets all sorts of glances from his fellow riders (but not the glances he is used to, so that's something).

"Harry Potter," the woman at reception repeats back to him, unconvinced. 

Harry shrugs and nods at her, and it isn't until he finds the toilets and sees himself in the mirror that he understands her confusion.  Merlin, he doesn't even recognize himself.  He hasn't been consciously avoiding mirrors at Hogwarts, catching spare glimpses of himself here and there, but under the overbearing Ministry lighting, there's no escaping it.  He has lost weight - Christ, he didn't even realize how much - and his eyes are lined and hollow. It's embarrassing to be suddenly confronted with your own unfamiliar body; Harry feels like this is something he should have been made aware of much, much earlier.

"All right there, son?" a middle-aged wizard with spidery eyebrows asks him, washing his hands in the basin next.

'Son,' thinks Harry, not 'Mister Potter,' and feels both discomfort and crushing relief.

"Fine, thanks," Harry says quickly, and the man nods once before leaving. 

"Fine, thanks," Harry says again to the empty toilets, watching his mouth move in the mirror.  It's like the words are coming from somewhere far away, somewhere he's never been.

Somewhere with white sand, he thinks a bit hysterically.  White sand and an endless blue sea.

He goes through a series of increasingly invasive security procedures before being admitted to the Wizengamot, and Kingsley Shacklebolt smiles wryly at him from his place in the front row.  Harry's first sight of Severus Snape in so many months feels as physical as pain (someone prying their hands apart on the floor of the Shack as the healers arrive from Mungoes: "He'll be fine now, Mr. Potter, you just need to - let go, Harry, you have to let go -")  

Snape looks about as terrible as Harry does, bony and lantern-jawed, and their eyes meet once, just once, as Harry is called to testify. Harry feels his knees grow inexplicably weak.  He thinks about Occlumency, wonders if Snape can still read minds as easily as he could inspire irrational, bottomless anger.  He focuses hard on the words YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE, but Snape shows no sign of understanding, keeping his gaze focused on his long, pale fingers.

Harry tells them everything.

When he's finished, he can't remember half of what he said, only that Snape looked up briefly at him for a moment, and Harry felt the room tilt slightly, the world going off its axis.

After a few hours, there is a short recess involving tea and biscuits, and Harry is surprised to see Snape up and walking about in the small hall that serves as a common area.  The man is deep in hushed conversation with an elegant, blonde woman who must be his barrister, but the woman soon leaves, and then it's just Snape - Snape, all alone with a paper cup of tea in his shaking hands, Snape, pretending to stare at his feet while all about him wizards and witches pretend that he is wallpaper, Snape whom Harry hasn't seen since the Aurors tore their hands apart, days and weeks and months ago -

"Mr. Potter." There is a tall, cheerful young man at Harry's side.  "Bertrand Quick, Secretary to the Minister.  I was wondering if I might speak to you briefly about our Auror training program.  This might seem rather sudden, but we have an offer for you that I'd be honoured if you'd hear -"

"Could you give me a minute?" Harry asks absently, drawn to Snape like a ship through rough waters.

He is lucky that Snape is looking down, or else he's certain the man would run.  As it is, Snape finally glances up only when Harry's shadow falls over his polished boots.

He does not look happy.

"Mr. Potter," he says softly, "Have you come to collect your reward?"

Snape's voice is like an electric shock; the hairs on Harry's forearms stand on end.

"My reward -"

"I believe a reward is customary when the great hero comes to the aid of the helpless maiden.  How very _kind_ of you to bestow your favours upon me."

Only Snape would use the word 'kind' as if it was obscenity, and Harry cannot suppress a small wince of pain.  He doesn't really know what he was expecting - certainly not for Snape to embrace him with open arms (that would be more than a little awkward) but he can admit that he had _hoped_ -

He had hoped that maybe things would be a little easier. 

"The reunion not going as planned?" Snape cuts in, as if he's reading Harry's mind - which he might well be, oh god.

"I didn't plan anything," Harry lies, "I just wanted to say - to see how you were, I -"

"How I was?" A few nervous glances are darting their way, though Snape is endeavouring to keep his voice as low as possible.  "Try spending ten months in Azkaban, and have that question put to you.  I would be interested in your answer."

"You shouldn't have been there," Harry says quickly, a bit louder than he intends.  "And if they try to send you back, I'll -"

"You'll what?" Snape's eyes have gone even darker, if that's possible, and his white mouth trembles just slightly. "Take on the Ministry? Fight off the Dementors single-handed? How very _noble_ of you, Mr. Potter."

Again, Snape wields compliments like the most savage of insults.  Harry knows that nothing is going to come of this conversation, but he still feels rooted to the ground at Snape's feet, feels like he couldn't take a step back if he was forced at wand point.

"Five minutes, ladies and gentleman," a page announces, and a vague shuffle toward the door begins.

Snape does not move, however, and Harry physically cannot. They stare at each other in silence, and he wonders nervously what the end game is here.  Snape's teeth are bared so fiercely, Harry feels like any moment he might get bitten.

"Don't come back inside," Snape says finally, each word a blade.  "I don't need the Golden Boy bearing any further witness to my ignominy."

"I don't know what that word means," Harry says without thinking, and something flickers in Snape's gaze, hot as candle flame.

"It means piss off back to Hogwarts."

They are nearly the only people left in the room, and Snape finally breaks the hold of their proximity, turning away slowly and moving toward the doors. Harry feels like a spell has been lifted - he can breathe and move and think in straight lines again. 

"I just - I just wanted to help," he says quietly to Snape's retreating form, and when Snape turns back, there is something broken in the slant of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. It is something Harry hadn't noticed before, but now it seems so obvious that it is all he can see.

"You are about forty years too late."

Snape leaves, a whirl of black fabric, and Harry stands for a moment in the empty room, watching the heavy oaken doors close against him. 

He feels like he is slowly deflating; soon the shell of his body will pool weakly on the floor, no air left to keep him upright. Snape was in Azkaban for ten bloody months, and where the hell was Harry?   The past year seems like a blur; he can barely remember what he did yesterday.  There was a bunch of time in Mungoes, wasn't there, all those tests to assess any emotional trauma he might be experiencing (not to mention how he was able to come back from the dead.)  There was a bit of concern that he was immortal, or something similarly incredible, and then he had been with those counselors, and working on the Hogwarts restoration project, and then school has started and everything was hard and unpleasant, nothing felt the same at all. The school wasn't his home anymore, it was a battle ground and somewhere out there Snape shone like a distant star.  Harry had written letters and he had spoken to Kingsley (okay, one of Kinglsey's assistants), but then he was breaking mirrors and blowing up rooms and the important bits all went grey, and he - he -

He let Snape down.  After everything, after all he did, Harry let him down.

He leaves the Ministry to find it raining hard outside, water spiking off the pavement and a sea of black umbrellas. He knows he should go back to school, his friends are no doubt anxious to hear about the trial, but he feels guilt and anger twitching under his skin.  He can't settle down, so he walks, ducking from eave to eave but mostly getting soaked.  Snape still hangs like a chain around his throat, and Harry calls himself all kinds of coward for leaving the trial, for letting Snape bully him away when what he should have stayed.  He should have stayed in that courtroom like a statue, refused to leave until justice was finally done.

Harry doesn't realize how far he's walked until he sees the statue of Charles and realizes he's in Charing Cross.  And there, at the corner of Bedford and the Strand is a tiny bookshop that just screams wizard space; Harry can see threads of magic stretching from it at all angles, and in the middle of Muggle London, no less.  He doesn't know much about London, aside from the Tower and the Eye and all that tourist stuff, but he's pretty sure that the London University of Witchcraft and Wizardry ( _Timeo Hominem Unius Libri_ ) is around here somewhere.  He couldn't say where exactly.  Surely not in the caving down shop in front of him.

Barely avoiding getting run down by a passing cab, Harry crosses the street and goes inside.

There's a fellow posted at the inner set of double doors, a portly young man with thick glasses, and he smiles as Harry approaches.

"Identification, sir?"

Again, Harry feels the thrill of being unknown, even it's for the simple reason that his body is having an independently nervous breakdown.  The magic from inside the building calls to him like a siren song, so he shows this fellow his wand, and the doors open immediately.

"Welcome to the WLL, sir," the man says as Harry passes, and Harry doesn't understand his meaning until he steps through the doors (charmed with a quick drying spell) and a vast library stretches out on either side of him.

("The Wizarding Library of London," Hermione tells him, from a conversation long ago, "I've only been once, on holiday, but it's brilliant, really brilliant.  We should all take a trip some time, on a weekend, or -" This is where Ron cuts her off with a loud groan, unclear how shelves of textbooks and weekend holidays are compatible on any level.)

"WLL," Harry says quietly, as a stack of books streams past him in the air, and antique wooden shelves rotate and shuffle themselves for meandering patrons.  The ceiling is high and rather cavernous, and a lavishly carpeted spiral staircase leads up to a second floor (though many guests are choosing to travel by broom rather than be forced into physical exercise.)

Harry wanders through the maze of high shelves, passes teenagers and adults and children, and finds himself strangely transfixed by the overwhelming quiet.  He traces his hands over fine, worn spines and feels his heartbeat gradually slowing, his breathing even out.  And the thing is, he never considered himself much of an academic.  He can certainly appreciate a good book (in fact, one might have saved his life every now and then) but he doesn’t salivate at the sight of leather binding or yellowed pages.  That's more Hermione’s area.  For him, books are something that one uses for a purpose and then largely forgets about: tools, not treasures.  His own bookshelf consists of some books on Quidditch, a collection of Dickens, and a few magazines, and yet - and yet this library, this silence -

"You look a bit lost, sir." A soft voice interrupts his thoughts.  "Can I be of assistance?"

Harry turns to see a severe looking middle-aged woman hovering in the air behind him.  Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she's wearing an old-fashioned high-collared dress.  Oh, and she's definitely a ghost.

"Just, um, looking -"

"Oh!  You must be here about the job," she interrupts, matter-of-factly. "Do you have references?"

"The job? Um -"

"Never mind, you can submit them later. Have you time for an interview right now?  Only the next few days are going to be rather hectic.  Spring cleaning and that, but I've got fifteen minutes if you're free."

Harry thinks about Snape and his mum and the Great Hall strewn with bodies and blood on his hands, his face -

"All right," he says, and the world -

*            *            *

 - shifts around him, darkness pushed aside by grey, then by lighter grey until everything dissolves in layers of milky white, the colour of blindness.

The man has no name, is without form or substance. He wants nothing, and remembers even less.  He only knows he is a man because he can feel the edges of his body, his borders, his beating heart.

He is alive.

There is a word hovering just at the periphery of his consciousness, but it is just a handful of sounds at this point, and he cannot connect them together. 

He waits, riding the blankness like a wave. The sounds become a name: Severus.

Points converge and there is a room around him.  A room filled with polished oak desks and vials and cast-iron cauldrons.  A potions class.

  1.   That is his name, isn't it?  His name is Severus, and he is -



Oh Jesus, he is dead.

Slowly it bleeds back into his memory like a poorly bandaged wound.  The Shack.  The Snake, and a mouthful of clotted blood, and white hands on his neck - but no, that wasn't it, was it? There was more to it, there was an afterwards, an Epilogue. There was rough wood beneath his palms.  Slivers.  There were wands in his face and someone else was there too, someone long-limbed and filthy and fine -

Severus cannot recall more than that, his mind veers away like a Snitch - and what does that word mean?  He has no idea, has probably never heard it in his life, and yet it floats honey-coloured and shapeless behind his eyelids. 

He gives up memory as a bad job, and focuses on his surroundings as his hands and feet come buzzing back into existence, heavy weights hanging on his hips and shoulders.  He reaches for his neck, swallowing against the vague fear that his fingers will come away wet.  He feels nothing, nothing at all, no head, no neck, oh God, God -

He studies his hands - lined and yellowed as ever, but clean of any blood - and tells himself he must have a head if he has eyes to see.  It occurs to him that his body feels slightly airborne, floating in a grey cloud of nothing, but when he turns his gaze down he finds he is sitting in an upright, hard-backed chair, somewhat haphazardly placed amidst the potions-related clutter.  He cannot feel, then.  He can see, but cannot feel.

Severus thinks he should test his other senses, measure the extent of his abilities and limits.  He should speak, but he can't decide on a word that is appropriate for the situation. It becomes an overwhelming decision (has he been asleep?  In a coma?  How long, how bloody long?), it becomes the most important choice he has ever made, and words fail him, he's never spoken in his life, he can't remember how, he is afraid, he is -

"Help," Severus says, and he feels the hum of sound deep in his chest.  But he hears nothing. 

So. 

He cannot speak or he cannot hear.  Or both.

He would never have put a chair such as this in the middle of the classroom.  He examines the hems of his robes, trimmed with emerald-coloured brocade; these are robes he does not own, robes he would never wear.

He is a portrait, then. 

As if his understanding wills it to be true, an empty school corridor swims across his vision, somewhere just beyond the edge of the classroom he inhabits.  Hogwarts, Severus thinks without any further prompting, because he knows each stone and plank in that school, memorized its hidden corners during a year spent cruel and hated and utterly alone. 

" _It was us_ ," rings in his ears like a bomb that's just gone off, or a gun.  Who said that?  Severus knew, once.  Didn't he?  He did.

He thinks he should at least attempt to explore the room he's trapped in for - for (he tries not to think 'eternity' but the word manifests itself anyway, turning his blood cold.  He can feel that, at least, just as he can feel the sharp skip his heartbeat makes in his narrow chest.).

There are things that do not bear thinking about.  How is it that every portrait isn't screaming with hysterical despair?  Severus rises, or he thinks he does.  He cannot feel the ground, but it seems a good deal farther away than it was previously.  Tile, he thinks absently, slate grey.

He takes a buoyant step with his numbed limbs, and the resulting panic sends him sideways, crashing into a desk and sliding to the floor.  There should be noise, and there should be pain, but Severus hears and feels nothing.  He lifts his hands to his face again, and when he pulls them away they are wet. 

He can weep, then. 

He stares up at the ceiling, the prospect of getting to his feet too daunting for the present.  Cedar beams, how extraordinary.

How bloody fucking marvelous.

If he's being perfectly honest, he thought he'd be happier with death.  In those last few months (few years, really) he'd longed for it, though not in the fierce romantic way he'd done as a teenager.  He hadn't made plans or anything like that, quite confident the war would take care of it, but he'd wondered sometimes - alone, in the dead of night - how much longer he had to continue.  He saw the steps he'd have to take leading out across the moors and curving into the dark forest and he'd felt such an exhausting degree of despair it made speech impossible.  He was not depressed and he was not sad; he was simply tired.  He was ready to finish things.  _Then_.

_Now_ , however -

Severus should have expressly forbid the painting of any portraits.  Death but not death, life but not life.  _Still life_ , Severus thinks, on the fine edge of madness.  He studies his hands, his arms, the blackness of his sleeves.  He cannot see brush strokes, can see nothing but skin and fabric, but it is not his body.  He closes his eyes briefly, desperate for the relief of nothingness, but when he does he sees green light flashing, feels the floor beneath his back as his heart slowly winds down.

Severus opens his eyes in panic, and the ceiling is still high and unreachable, and his body is still lost completely to him.

"Those bastards fucking murdered me," he says, or attempts to, shock and outrage fighting against each other for dominance.   He remembers now: picking himself off the ground, the blood that would not flow, the pulse that would not stop.  And then there were other people there, and wands, and they killed him, didn't they?  After surviving the bloody snake bite, to be murdered by some inconsequential little - and who were they, come to think of it?  He can't remember any names or faces, but he can clearly see someone leaning over him, the bright green of the Killing Curse - but that can't be right, because he was standing when they cursed him, not lying down.  What is that colour and what does it mean?

("It was us," a soft voice says in his ear. "We won," and Severus' broken body keens with overwhelming relief.)

The Dark Lord is dead.  He must be, because Severus can remember - just for a second, sharpened with pain and adrenaline - happiness.  And Hogwarts has been rebuilt, if the corridor in front of him means anything.  The Order was successful.  Potter must have -

_Harry_ (hands press against a ragged throat, "No, no -" and the smell of lilacs and iron along roof of Severus' gasping mouth.)

The boy tried to save him.  He did, and Severus died anyway.

He is suddenly very tired.  Exhaustion prickles on his skin like pins and feathers; he feels as if he has been awake for years.  Perhaps there is some sort of sleeping enchantment in his new prison.  It might explain why so many of the Headmasters' portraits spend their days in a perpetual state of snoring unconsciousness.

He lifts his head to ensure that his body is sufficiently hidden behind a desk.  Excepting nights in the infirmary, Severus has never slept in front of another person, and the thought of being observed casually by passing students makes his lungs seize up.

His numbed limbs need no blanket or pillow - one state is just as good as another - and Severus closes his eyes, the sense of falling almost tangible as sleep drags him under.

He does not dream, but the last thing he sees is Harry Potter's outstretched hand, white against the darkness of the Shack, reaching without hope toward Severus' body (which falls, falls, as distant and dying as a star).

He sleeps.

He wakes.

For a moment, he experiences that brief, panicked loss of memory and time that comes with waking in a strange place. It doesn't take long for the panic to become dull despair as the sad story comes back to him (tongue dry against the roof of his mouth, floor hard against the cradle of his skull).

He can feel. 

Well, that's something, the scientist in him supplies.  It is progress.

Progress in an immotile world, Severus thinks, but he rises just the same.  The movement requires more energy than he would normally have expected, but there's no doubt a different set of physics here.  Merlin, someone should write a manual on this sort of thing. Perhaps someone already has and Severus didn't show the appropriate amount of interest when he had a pulse.

It's easier to move with sensation in one's limbs, so Severus paces the edges of his prison.  It's melodramatic, but drama is all he's been left with, and he may as well use it.  The lab is eight desks wide and eight desks long and there is a closed door on either end. He tries them both but his fingers lack the strength to tighten, and the knobs will not turn.  After a series of unsuccessful attempts, he pounds one of the doors in frustration, and still cannot hear the resulting bang. Panic swims like bile at the back of his throat and he cannot catch his breath, he's going mad, he cannot breathe, he -

Severus sits down, leans against the door. He holds his breath, and wills his pulse to slow, his hands to stop trembling.  He tries every trick he ever used as a bloody spy to quiet his nerves, appear smooth and calm as a placid sea. 

"Severus Snape," he mouths with dry lips, and the future stretches before him, an endless series of days like this, emptiness and nothingness and panic forever and ever until someone puts him out of his misery and burns Hogwarts to the ground oh Jesus, Jesus Christ -

"Severus Snape," he says again, but he only hears his mother's voice, Northern accent stronger when she was angry, almost as strong as his grandmother's.

( _"_ Severus Snape, stop being silly this instant." Eileen frowns over her spectacles at him, and he helplessly stops crying.  Not because he is afraid of her, but because she never cries, does she, even when things are hard as fists and blunt as steel. He's never seen her shed so much as a tear, and he loves her, he loves her without question or limit _.)_

"Fuck's sake," Severus murmurs, and gets to his feet. 

To keep his mind anchored to the present, he examines the cauldrons on each desk.  Expensive, certainly, and never used; the artist must have been looking at a photo from a magazine.  Severus snorts. He might have expected that his painter would know next to nothing about potions.  Unless there was no painter.  After all, the portrait of Dumbledore appeared hours after the old wizard died.  There couldn't have been an artist, then; the man was painted by Hogwarts itself (after _you_ killed him, you traitor, you monster, you murderouscowardlyspy - )

"Stop," Severus says, and his body starts when a low sound ricochets off the polished floor and high walls.

His voice. 

He can hear.

He scratches his nails over the rough surface of the cauldron, and is gratified to hear the resulting growl of sound. He laughs, almost hysterically grateful, and he can hear himself laugh, and it is a gift.   He tries to push a cauldron off of the desk, desperate for the loud clang that would result, but his arms are too weak.  He contents himself with tossing a chair. 

I could destroy this room, he thinks. Break the chairs and shred the textbooks and shatter every conceivable piece of glass. What would the staff and students think when they passed my portrait then? 

The idea is tempting, but Severus feels that same pull of exhaustion come upon him suddenly, like a lamp being turned off. He manages to fold himself back into the armchair before his eyes are dragged inarguably closed. The world spins around him, and he exhales a small sigh as he loses consciousness again (but he can hear the sigh, can't he, and he is grateful for that much at least.)

He sleeps.

He wakes.

Draco Malfoy is standing in front of him.

Severus startles so violently he almost falls out of his chair (no, _no,_ Draco lived, he must have -) before he realizes that Draco is not, in fact, inside the portrait itself, but standing in the corridor of Hogwarts where the portrait is hung.  The boy seems almost as shocked to see Severus as Severus is to see him, and he raises a hand to his chest.

"P-Professor?" Draco says, and his voice shakes. 

Severus tries to remember the last time he saw him. Shortly before he fled the school, certainly.  The boy did not look like this - gaunt and grey, eyes red as if he'd been crying - and when did Draco cry?  Proud, arrogant Draco Malfoy, touched by nothing, defeated by no one -

"Draco," Severus says, and his voice is lower and rougher than he can remember.

"You're - you're awake." Draco's eyes are intent upon Severus' face, and Severus wants to cringe under the scrutiny.

"Evidently." 

Draco says nothing, breathing rapid and uneven, and Severus is forced to continue.

"Good Lord, what has happened?"

A manic sort of smile breaks over Draco's face.

"What?  You - you haven't been awake.  Not for months.  Haven't spoken to anybody, and I've come - I've come here to see you, but you wouldn't -"

"How long?" Severus feels fear rise in his throat, choking him.

"Oh, um, since - almost a year now. It's March.  I can't believe you're finally -"

  1.   Bloody fucking March.



"What happened?" Severus says immediately, trying to keep the urgency from his voice but largely unsuccessful. "The war - Draco, you must - you must tell me -"

"Potter killed the Dark - killed Voldemort. Just in the Great Hall, in front of everyone.  Mother and Father survived.  Kingsley Shacklebolt's Minister now.  Crabbe - my friend Vincent, died. "

Severus swallows (when the time comes, the boy must die) and sees green and red behind his eyelids.  "Who else?"

"The werewolf and his wife, or whatever she was.  One of the Weasleys, but I can't remember which.  Rookwood. Greyback.  Yaxley.  Aunt - Aunt Bella."

Severus hadn't even considered Bellatrix mortal, certain her inky soul would scuttle away from death like a cockroach. Apparently not.

"Who else?" he says again.

"We lost a lot of people," Draco says quietly, and Severus does not know which side he is speaking of. Or if he's even speaking of sides. "You."

Severus is nowhere near as deceased as he would prefer.  "Of that, at least, I am aware."

"You don't know what it's like to be a Slytherin now, it's - we're pariahs.  It's ridiculously unfair.  I can't even go to school it's so bad - even Durmstrang wouldn't have me. I just come here to hand in exams and the rest I do at home."  Draco snorts, bitterly.  "I'm just lucky Saint Potter's gone or I probably wouldn't have been able to get a moment alone with you."

The name 'Potter' skips like a stone across the smooth waters of Severus' fragile composure ( _"It was us, we won,"_ and the smell of spring and fear and _touch my neck again, my face -_ )

The latter part of that memory is completely new, wholly unexpected, and Severus almost falls from his chair for a second time.

"Gone.  Gone where," he hisses, and it is not a question. He cannot say why he feels so fierce about the information - like every second it evades him costs a heartbeat or a breath - but he does.  God help him, he does.

"He dropped out, didn't he?" Draco says like it's common knowledge.  Severus could care less; _Potter is alive_ and that is all that matters in the world and in the universe.  "I don't know too much about it, but apparently he was at the Wizengamot - defending your memory, by the way - and offered instant admission to the Auror training program. Hasn't even taken his NEWTS - Father says it's completely unheard of, and there ought to be an inquiry. Bloody Ministry sycophants. Anyway, from what I heard he'd been cracking up at Hogwarts, losing his bloody mind.  Probably took the first out he could get. I'm sure the staff couldn't wait to be rid of him."

The mention of Potter, at least, has pulled Draco from the brink of despair and deposited him firmly in resentful (and familiar) territory.  Severus is a bit relieved.  He is well aware he isn't the best person to counsel distraught teenagers, regardless of what he feels for the teenager in question - and if he is being brutally honest, he does love Draco in a grudging sort of way.  He smoked cigars with Lucius the day Draco was born, and the moment he held the blond babe in his arms he thought that this child, surely this child was more remarkable and astonishing than all others.

"Anyway, almost every time I've been here in the past months, Potter's been camped out outside your bloody portrait, waiting for you to wake up.  Like you were Sleeping Beauty or something." Draco scoffs at the absurdity of his comparison.  "I've even overheard him _talking_ to you. It's embarrassing, is what it is."

Potter, speaking to him?  Severus tries to recall any recollection of sound, any break from his wide stretch of solitude.  He cannot.  He feels strangely uneasy about it - Potter watching him sleep, Potter telling him things that Severus had not agreed to listen to - it feels a bit like a violation. 

"He always had a lot to say about you, even at the final battle.  Waxed romantic about you and his mum in front of the Dark Lord and everyone. Like any of us would believe that -"

"Is Professor McGonagall Headmistress, then?" he asks, changing the subject immediately.  Draco holds for a beat, fixing him with an assessing gaze, before continuing.

"Yes.  And it's not like _she's_ biased toward Gryffindors or anything.  Of course, Dumbledore wasn't any better -" Draco stops speaking immediately, and Severus allows himself to slowly recover from the impact of hearing Albus' name spoken aloud.

( _"Severus - please,"_ and how many times will Severus see him falling behind his eyelids, and remember how he learned to shape his wand around an Unforgiveable, so long ago and much too young, _"You have to mean it, Snivellus, you have to really mean it - "_ )

Severus cannot reply to this.  Draco does not apologize, of course he doesn't, but he does go still for a moment, the only remorse a Malfoy is likely to show. He looks unbearably young, and Severus feels a great well of gratitude that it was he who cast the Killing Curse, that Draco is not yet guilty of murder.

"Where exactly in the school am I?" he asks, shaking off the dust of sentimentality.

"Dungeons.  One of the back corridors, not too many students, " Draco tells him.  "I had McGonagall move you the last time I was here.  You used to be right outside the potions class, and I thought you would have hated it.  When you woke up."  

_And this child, surely this child is more remarkable and astonishing than all others._

"Any expression of gratitude would doubtless be inadequate."

Draco sniffs, a thin smile twitching on his lips. "I have to go. Mother's waiting in Hogsmeade, and you can imagine how happy she is about it."

Severus nods, feeling his artificial walls move slightly closer.  He'd been half in love with loneliness for the better part of his life.  Now, however, the thought of it makes him feel vaguely claustrophobic.  He wants to claw and scratch and tear the walls apart.

"I'll come back when I can, though. And I won't tell anyone you're awake.  Except Mother. She'll want to see you soon, I expect."

"Thank you, Draco."

"Well." Draco shrugs.  "Slytherins have to watch out for our own.  Goodbye, Professor."

Severus watches Draco grow smaller as he walks away down the corridor, eventually vanishing around a corner.  Snatches of the conversation echo like aftershocks through Severus' portrait ("cracking up at Hogwarts, losing his bloody mind") and Severus wonders when - if ever - he will be able to let go his hold on Lily's son.  Because - because his work is done.   Severus is a dead man, for Merlin's sake - and yet he wonders where Potter is now, feels drawn to him like a ship through rough waters.

Potter lived, Severus tells himself, and that is all that matters.  That was what he promised to do, and his promise was kept.  For once in his cringing life, Severus was true to his word.

Potter lived, and the Dark Lord fell, and as far as Severus is concerned, the story -  

*            *            *

 - begins - really begins - one year later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments so far! School is finally over (for the summer at least) so hopefully I'll be posting this a bit more quickly. All feedback/concrit is so welcome.

Potter lived, and the Dark Lord fell, and as far as Severus is concerned, the story -  

*            *            *

 - begins - really begins - one year later.

 Or maybe it begins that day in February - Harry coming back from London, still damp with rain, with a job offer tucked in his back pocket.  Maybe it begins with Ron and Hermione and Ginny sitting around him in the Gryffindor Common Room, each of them staring at Harry with differing degrees of disbelief. 

"You're leaving Hogwarts?" Ron asks slowly.

"Yes."

"But - you won't finish your NEWTS. You won't graduate," Hermione says, beyond shock.

"Yes."

"But you're going to be an Auror," Ginny says, "I thought - I thought we both were."

To this, Harry has no reply.  That had been the plan, hadn't it?  The two of them, going through training together, having babies and saving the world.  How could he explain that it wasn't his dream anymore, hadn't been his dream for such a long time, and he hadn't realized it until this morning? How could he make her understand the way he felt when he stepped into the library and everything was quiet and no one knew him: the rightness, the sense of peace, the War scrabbling against the windows to get in, but still being rained on like garbage in the street -

"I'm sorry," Harry says, because it's the only thing he can think of saying, "I'm sorry."

Ginny looks at him, betrayal real and scalding in her eyes, and Harry forces himself not to look away. 

"Who makes this kind of decision without talking to their girlfriend first?  Or their friends?" Ginny asks.  "I thought we were - partners, Harry.  I thought -"

Ron and Hermione look distinctly uncomfortable, and Harry apologizes again and again, but the whole evening ends with Ginny going to bed and refusing to speak to him.

"She'll come round, mate," Ron tells him, clapping his shoulders as they leave the Common Room.  "It's just a bit of a surprise. For all of us."

Harry meets with McGonagall the next day, and his hands are near to shaking the entire time, but there is no hint of betrayal or disappointment in her eyes. 

"Promise me you won't regret it," she says once Harry finishes speaking, and a weary laugh scratches its way up his throat.

"Can anyone promise that?" he asks, and a week later he has a flat in East London and is working at the most famous Wizarding library in the world.  

Despite the hush of intellectual silence that falls like heavy snow over every room, the library is a buzzing hive of activity at all hours of the day.  It stands sixteen stories high, a narrow stone tower of a building, full of lost passages and hidden rooms, and even the Head Librarian (Mrs. Penny Peggotty, widow and ghost) is not privy to all of the tower’s secrets.  Intellectuals flock to its crooked wrought iron gates to get their ink-stained fingers on first editions of Quinlin and Andkudinov; students fold their beleaguered bodies into stiff wooden desks for the privilege of a few hours with whatever rare text has just been assigned by the sadistic profs at LUWW.  Wizards from around the world come for the spectacle: the Hall of Screaming Literature, the locked display case of Feral Fiction, the merchandise (most recently a line of jumpers/coffee mugs proclaiming “I Survived the Spiral Staircase at WLL!”) and avid readers come for the latest paperback by Rita Skeeter, or _Fifty Hues of Hazel_ , the erotic sensation taking the Wizarding world by storm. 

Tourists and visitors call it the Tower of Knowledge. Students refer to it as ‘the Stacks’ or sometimes ‘the Firey Stacks’ or sometimes ‘the Stacks of Hell.’

Harry calls it Will.  He shelves books until his back is sore, and makes a pittance, and loves it.

At night, he walks the streets of Muggle London, and finds that the more time he spends, the more he grows to love the city: colourful and ugly and gloriously _unmagic_.   He gets used to anonymity, being unknowing and unknown, until it feels as comfortable as cool sheets or his father's cloak.  He walks through London until he can navigate by smell, by sound, by the constellations like a sailor.

He goes back to celebrate when his friends leave Hogwarts (both Ginny and Ron accepted for the Auror training program, and Hermione pushing papers around for the Ministry), and they spend as much time as possible together over the summer, but somehow the summer slides into fall, and then everyone is busy with school and Harry dives again into solitude (headfirst, no splash).  Fall shrivels into a cold, dead winter, and Harry lights candles at the Burrow, kisses Ginny on New Years, and does not quite catch his breath until he's back in his sad little flat, putting the kettle on for tea. He takes extra shifts at work, watches dawn break over London Bridge, and slowly transforms into a creature of late nights and early mornings and silence.

He can hardly remember being happier.

Winter becomes a damp spring, and then before he knows it a year has gone by, and summer is crashing like a wave over the city. The flowers wilt and the sidewalk steams, and it is August when they find the first book.

Harry is at the front desk of WLL, fairly empty this early in the morning - though it will fill up once the sun comes out in full force, and there's no civilized way of being out of doors.

He's reading a letter from Ginny; they're doing the letter thing now, writing each other every couple of days, and it's working surprisingly well.  It was easy over the winter, but for the spring and summer semesters she and Ron are training in Bulgaria, and they've only been able to snatch a weekend together.   They all came down to Harry's flat ("Dead brilliant, mate," Ron says, sitting back on the couch and cracking a beer while Hermione wrinkles her nose, "Setting your own rules - doing whatever you like - I can understand the appeal now. You always were the smart one of our bunch."  Of course this last part costs him; Hermione is an excellent listener.).   With Ron and Hermione on the lilo, however, it's hard to be very romantic and Harry has the feeling that Ginny went back to Bulgaria feeling vaguely unhappy with him.  He's going to make it up to her the next time she can sneak away.  It'll just be the two of them, and posh restaurants and champagne, and whatever she wants. Next time. 

Until then, he writes her letters, and ignores the pangs of guilt in his stomach, the persistent voice telling him he should be doing more.   And he's reading one of these letters ("Krum is here.  Ron still can't even look at him without blushing, it's pathetic/adorable...") when Ms. Peggotty floats into his personal space looking far more furious than he's ever seen her.  Harry doesn't understand - Christ, did _he_ do something wrong, is this somehow going to be _his_ fault - until she places an ancient and skull-crushingly-dull looking textbook down in front of him. He scans the title, all elongated script and S's that look like F's: "Difficulte Potions and How to Brewe Them."

"What is it?" he asks, at a loss, and Ms. Peggotty raises a transparent hand to her trembling mouth.

"Damaged!" she squeaks out a raspy cry. "Defaced! Vandalized!"

She says nothing more, just glowers expectantly down at him, until Harry takes the hint and turns to the first page. He sees nothing out of place, and though the book is obviously hundreds of years old, the pages seem fairly firm, mostly in tact.

"Page three hundred and six," Ms. Peggotty tells him, wincing a bit, "It's dreadful - you can't imagine -"

Harry can indeed imagine the type of vandalism that the Hogwarts textbooks saw regularly, and he is expecting all sorts of crude anatomy lessons.  He flips to page three hundred and six to find instead -

The page has been cut clean out.  The bottom half of the following page has also been neatly removed.  Harry frowns at the head librarian, who seems to be bravely holding back tears.

"You see?  _You see_?  Who would do such a thing?  What kind of irregular - deviant - brutish -"

Her voice cracks, and Harry wonders what he can possibly say. 

"What was on these pages?" He looks for a table of contents without success.  "Why would someone want them?"

"Who knows what goes on in the twisted mind of the modern criminal?"

"Can we see who checked it out last or -"

"We certainly can _not_ ," Ms. Peggotty interrupts him, snatching the book from the desk and clutching it against herself.  "This book does not leave the library - it is one of three known copies existing in the world.  The banshees at the main doors would shriek the building to the ground."

"Then how did -"

"It was stolen!  Stolen from our rare books vault and - _maimed_ \- within the walls of this very building!" Taking a deep breath, Ms. Peggotty attempts to compose herself. "It is.  Beyond.  Belief."

With that, she turns away, ghosting into the stacks and quickly gone from sight.  Harry's seen far worse in his time as a student (he shudders to think what she'd make of the Half-Blood Prince's potions book) but he can't say he's not curious about the particular potion the deviant-irregular-brute-criminal was after.

At the bottom of Ginny's letter, Harry scratches the book's title with his quill.  He rolls up the scroll and tucks it into his back pocket, where he largely forgets about it (between the sudden crush of students and the onslaught of wailing children on holiday, Harry is lucky to get out of the library with his life.).

Almost a month later, he's wandering the stacks, gathering the stray books that have been left behind or out of order, when he sees it.  Leather bound, inlaid with gold - not any ordinary book.  He picks it up, studying the fine writing on its cover: _Les Elixirs Anciennes._ He doesn't speak French, but he can figure this much out.

This is not a book that just anybody could take out of the library.

Harry flips it open, grim with the knowledge of what he's going to find: about halfway in, there are three stubs where pages used to be before someone cut them neatly along the edge. 

Again, there is no table of contents, no way of finding out what potions were outlined on the missing pages.  Harry knows he'll have to take the book to Peggotty, a task he does not look forward to.  But before he does, he takes a pen from his back pocket and writes the title down on the palm of his hand. 

Someone is brewing something - something difficult and ancient and rare.  Something they don't want anyone else knowing about.

Harry thinks about it, and keeps thinking about it, and it's still on his mind when he meets Hermione for drinks that weekend. Despite her living in the same city, he sees her only a little more than he sees Ron and Ginny. There's nothing Hermione does halfway, and she's approaching even this insignificant admin job as if she's training to be the Minister, or something.  Which, granted, she may well be.   He misses her, just as he misses all his friends, but he can't say it isn't difficult to go from being an anonymous face in a crowd to the intense and personal scrutiny of his lifelong best friend.

And when did this happen, Harry wonders idly, as Hermione buys the next round?  What is wrong with him that spending time with the people he loves most has become a trial, and not a pleasure?

"And how's the job going?" Hermione asks, sitting back down. "Over a year now."

She has to repeat herself twice before he understands (the Muggle pub he chose haphazardly is loud and full of footballers, and he and Hermione have spent most of the evening leaning in so close together their noses nearly touch, just to make out what the other is shouting.).

He snipes good-naturedly about a few of the other assistants (mostly in their mid-twenties and too hip for their own good), but is generally full of nothing but love for his place of employment. He tells her about a few of Will's most difficult patrons, showing off a bit, exaggerating the craziest stories until she laughs so hard she has to cough.  When he mentions the vandalized books (mostly as an excuse to do an impression of Ms. Peggotty at her most wrathful) Hermione stops laughing.   Her eyebrows knit together, an expression Harry recognizes from seven years of being far too familiar.

"Too bad you can't ask Snape," she says, a suggestion she would never have made had she not had two pints and started on her third. 

"Snape?" Harry almost chokes on his lager. His mouth feels scorched from saying the man's name out loud.  "Why would I - what would he -"

"He might have heard of these books of yours, might have been able to tell you what was removed.  He's probably seen most of them at one point or another, and you remember that massive collection they took out of Spinner's End."

"Wait - what?" Harry tries to keep up. "What collection?"

"Around Christmas.  While he was still in - in Azkaban, they repossessed Spinner's End.  The Ministry just came out with it last summer, after his trial finished.  Harry, you must have heard about or - _read_ about it -"

"I didn't," Harry insists, heartbeat thudding dull and heavy in his ears.  "I haven't been - keeping up with the trials, or -" He trails off. "They really repossessed his things?  His house? But he was innocent, he was proven innocent, that can't be -"

His heartbeat gets faster, louder - an angry stranger pounding down the door.

"Once the trial was over, surely they had to give it all back.  Or - something."

Hermione fixes him with a sad, nervous look. "Well, no, that isn't how it worked.  In the Prophet they went into great detail - it was all sold and the funds went to the War Orphans charity."  She shakes her head.  "I can't believe you didn't know."

"I stopped reading the papers," Harry admits, like he's owning up to an act of treason.  "There was just - so much about me.  And Ginny and you and Ron - I just -"

"It's okay," Hermione says, reaching across the table to take his hand.  "I understand."

"Where is he now?  Does anyone know?"

"I don't think so.  Apparently there was a big blow up on the last day of the trial, a bunch of press and everything, and Snape wasn't very - he wasn't -" She bites her lip.

"He was his usual self, I'm guessing?"

"Well, yes.  And of course that didn't go over very well in the press, and he hasn't been seen since."

Harry can't believe he didn't know any of this; he was so wrapped up in being cut off and isolated and anonymous that he'd missed this huge, heart-breaking injustice.  And God knows how Snape must feel.  Harry wonders if Snape knew all this when they saw each other at the Wizengamot. He thinks back to Snape's haunted look, Snape's hands around a bloody paper cup, and magic pulses through him, angry and electric and -

"Harry," Hermione says softly, and Harry realizes that both of their pint glasses are hovering an inch or so above the table.

"Please tell me that's you," Hermione says, "because I don't think I've had _that_ much to drink."

The glasses hit the table, and it's only Harry's quick reflexes that stop them from tumbling over.   

"Have you spoken to anybody about that?" Hermione asks after a moment, "Even back at Hogwarts you were -"

"It's fine," he interrupts, hand tightening around his glass.

"I'm not trying to pry, but that isn't the first time something like this has happened.  Since the War, I mean."

"It's fine," he says again, but gives her a small smile, "It's getting better since I left.  Loads better, actually.  Just sometimes when I get scared or - angry, or -"

"Professor Snape was always good for that," Hermione says, but that isn't what Harry meant.  Not at all. 

That night, he dreams about stealing ingredients from Snape's cabinets - not just enough to make Polyjuice, this time he steals everything, armful after armful of herb and phial and outside the classroom, the War pounds on the door, howls like an angry animal and the locks can't hold, they won't hold -

Harry wakes up twisted in damp sheets, hair clinging to his forehead, and heart beating out a tattoo in his chest.

His clock reads just past five in the morning, pale light creeping through his curtains.

Harry sits at his desk, blank sheet of parchment in his hand.  He writes _Severus Snape_ , then _Professor Snape_ , then crosses them both out in disgust. He doesn't know where Snape is living, and even if he did - he hasn't an owl of his own (his fingers move absently, as if he can still vaguely feel snowy-white feathers beneath them.).

Harry crumples up the parchment, grabs his coat, and is out on the street in a matter of minutes.  He walks until the sun has fully risen, damp heat radiating from London's cobblestones and mossy roofs and crumbling churches, and slowly he is able to catch his breath. 

Weeks pass, and the summer starts to relax its grip on the city, rushing through September with wind and rain for good measure. Harry walks through the front doors of Will, unread letter (long gone soggy) from Ginny clutched in his hand. Her letters of late are of a particular theme and Harry is not looking forward to the pages upon pages of speculation about their relationship - his letters aren't as romantic as they used to be, he's drifting and she can feel it, they still haven't actually had _sex_ for Merlin's sake -

He's putting off opening it, he's not going to lie. All thought of the letter vanishes, however, when he hears Peggotty's raised falsetto from the middle of the first floor stacks, and realizes the vandal has struck again.  

"No morals, no values, no character of any kind!" Ms. Peggotty wails at anyone in earshot; as Harry peers around one of the shelves he notices several young patrons slink off to the second floor. "Can you imagine - not only doing harm to such an invaluable piece of literature, but now this - _this -_ degradation! Ah, Mr. Potter."

She hands an antique book to Harry, this one larger than the others and bound in something thin and leathery (Harry prays it isn't skin). 

"Return _that travesty_ to my office when you have completed your examination," Ms. Peggotty tells him, and Harry vaguely wonders what his examination is supposed to consist of, and when this became his responsibility. All the other staff members nod approvingly as Ms. Peggotty floats off, so Harry supposes that by general acclamation he's in charge of the vandalism problem. He overhears one sarcastic comment of "Harry Potter to the rescue," as he heads back to the front desk, but isn't that bothered by it (it's most likely from Gavin, who doesn't have any friends outside of his fixie bike).

Sitting behind the front desk, Harry flips through the latest victim: _Venenum Historia by Pliny the Shorter._ He finds the missing pages soon enough, and the additional degradation to which Peggotty referred - a few hastily scrawled notes in the margins of the page.  This last book had its pages taken in some haste; no neat cut, but a jagged tear that left some of the third page behind. Evidently, the vandal had been in a hurry - or was avoiding being caught. Harry squints at the strange loopy handwriting that trails over the remaining corner of the page: _add a clockwise stir after every sev-_

"No," he says aloud, earning a wide-eyed glance from a little girl waiting to check out _The Witch Princess at Unicorn School_.  Harry tries to smile reassuringly at her while he takes her card and stamps the book, but he gets the impression she is not fooled.

It doesn't matter.  As soon as she and her mum are finished, Harry's eyes are all for the book.  He has seen those notes before.  He saw those notes in Horace Slughorn's potions class.  He saw those notes on the day he brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death and won a tiny, golden vial of Felix Felicis with the help of the Half-Blood Prince.

The writing is not the same, thank Merlin. Harry might be ill if it was. But someone - whoever was tearing up these books - had seen Snape's old potions text.  Which - as far as Harry knows - had been burned to a crisp in the Room of Requirement.  So they either saw it before it was burned - meaning they went to Hogwarts and was someone Harry sodding _knew_ \- or they had spoken to Snape.

Harry's mind veers off at this.  He isn't much of a detective, he knows that much (God knows it took him long enough to figure out the Horcrux thing) but there is something about these books that feels wrong to him.  And not in the same way they feel wrong to Penny Peggotty (something akin to blasphemy combined with murder) but in a way he can't explain.

It isn't until he takes his lunch break, later in the day, that Harry remembers he still has Ginny's letter.  Over tea and a packet of crisps, he unfolds the white parchment, fully expecting an invitation to have a long serious talk about their relationship.  He feels suddenly sick to his stomach about it - what is wrong with him, she's perfect, she's wonderful, he'll do whatever it takes to make her happy -

Surprisingly enough, the letter contains nothing of the sort.

_Dear Harry,_ it reads in Ginny's familiar rounded hand, _George just Owled with some terribly sad news.  Aberforth Dumbledore is dead._

Harry reads the last line over again, not really taking in its meaning.

_Aberforth Dumbledore is dead.  They're having a service for him next Sunday at a church just outside Hogsmeade. It seems he found religion at the end, or something.  I'm not sure how he died, and George was very cryptic - 'something goat related' I think, is the word in Hogsmeade._

Harry feels a deep well of sorrow in his chest, grief for the bitter, angry man he never really knew, a shield of indifference surrounding bravery and strength and - most surprising of all - hope. Harry wonders how old he was, and how he died, and if he was alone. 

_Ron was quite insistent that he and I get leave - I think he's more anxious to see Hermione than pay his respects, but who can blame him - so maybe we'll meet you there?  At the Three Broomsticks, noon?  I'm very sorry to have to tell you all this, but I thought you should know right away. Can't wait to see you._

_All my love,_

_Gin_

_P.S. There's going to be a bit of a wake at Rosmerta's after, and YOU and I need to talk._

He knew it was coming, but still Harry presses his lips together, and the world -

*            *            *

\--  continues, as ever. 

Severus is rarely spoken to, thank Merlin, and he only hopes his black-eyed glare is enough to keep the world perpetually at bay.  Young Malfoy and his mother visit him after the leaving feast, Narcissa barely able to hold back her tears, and Severus is as congratulatory as he knows how to be.  For all his misanthropy, he finds himself considerably eased by the companionship, the opportunity to trade a few familiar barbs with a former student and his doting mother.  Narcissa is another person he would not consider his friend, but she is also someone to whom he owes a great deal.  He has heard stories from the mouths of passing chidren ( _Narcissa Malfoy said Harry was dead but she lied, she was lying-)_ and her reasons were purely selfish of course but -

But she lied.  And the boy lived.  

Severus receives no other visitors for some time, and he vacillates between languishing exhaustion and manic energy, goes from content and dozy slumber to scrabbling at the walls, leaving great gouges with his fingernails.

After an interminable period of this strange, unbalanced stasis, two extraordinary things happen in one day.

The first is that a group of students come tromping by him, the hems of their robes dusted with snow.  Snow.  It was March when he woke up, and June when Draco visited.  It is snowing now, which means that - whether he notices or not - time is passing. 

The seasons have changed.

The second extraordinary thing is that Severus opens the door on the left side of the painting. 

He does it almost without realizing it. Every day he turns the knob idly and without hope.  This time, however, the door opens and he stares into a strange and misty corridor, walls lined with burgundy brick and totally unfamiliar.

Severus steps back into the classroom, slamming the door shut before he realizes what has happened.

He is instantly overwhelmed with regret because - because what if that was the only chance he got, what if the door will never open again and he's trapped, only this time he had a _chance_ , god damn it, he had a chance and he lost it -

The door opens just as easily the second time, and Severus gradually coaxes his heartbeat down from the ceiling.  His aptitude for panic is only improving in this environment; he must endeavour to control it. 

He takes a hesitant step forward, and then steps hurriedly back.  He cannot bring himself to cross the threshold, certain he will turn into a pillar of salt. After lamenting the loss of freedom for so long, Severus cannot move.  He cannot leave.

He closes the door.

He tries the door on the right side of the painting to find a similarly misty corridor, and closes it immediately. He calls himself a million kinds of coward, but he does not open the doors again.   At some level he knows that these must lead to other paintings. When he was alive, he'd often seen portraits conversing, leaving their frames briefly for another (and there was that embarrassing incident with the two milkmaids across the hall from the Hufflepuff Common Room; Albus ended up turning both portraits to face the wall, which probably suited the milkmaids quite well.). 

Severus is not ready for the trip, not quite yet.   His mind races with the worst possible things that could happen to him - trapped in darkness, trapped behind the walls in some half-way place between paintings, trapped in nothingness forever and ever and always and -

When all's said and done, he couldn't really be any worse off than he is now.

After a few days of grey stagnation and a few nights of sleeping briefly and restlessly, Severus leaves his portrait (but the night before, Severus dreams.  He dreams as a portrait for the first time ever, and he wakes with such a sense of urgency, a sense of longing that he tastes like tears at the back of his throat. He cannot remember the contents of his dream, only vague impressions of his head resting on someone's bony shoulder, hair that smelled like lilacs and a story with no happy ending -)

"Fuck it," Severus says, and steps outside of the painting. 

The initial five minutes are terrifying. That much cannot be understated.

He wanders down and down the narrow hallway, puffs of fog hovering in the air like so many ghosts.  Severus has never been afraid of enclosed spaces - no, it is the wide and the wild that makes his teeth grind - but as he travels farther and farther away from his tiny, familiar room, he feels cold sweat gather at his hairline, his upper lip.

Jesus wept - he can sweat.  Well, he can cry, so this shouldn't be as remarkable as it is.  Severus tongues his upper lip, the taste salty and unpleasant, and feels tangible and solid and beating beating beating like a heart.   Feels alive.

It is at this moment that the doors appear, hundreds upon hundreds of doors at every side and angle.  The ceiling is lined with doors, the ground and the walls, and every one slightly transparent, revealing only a murky, water-colour impression of the painting on the other side.  Severus wants to weep with relief, or sweat with it, or _bleed_ with it (but he hasn't managed that, not yet).

He cannot begin to decide which door to go through. Nor can he fully determine what awaits him on the other side.  His only hope, his only wish, is that he does not end up in Albus' portrait (there are some things he cannot be expected to bear) and with that in mind, he closes his eyes and blindly steps through the first doorway in his path.

A meadow swims before him, rolling green hills dotted with blue bells, poesies.  A soft wind rustles through the grass, and Severus feels it in his eyelashes and along the roots of his hair.  It is strange; for all his aforementioned discomfort in open spaces, he feels oddly calm. It is an overwhelming feeling, a great crush of stillness in his ribs and between his fingers. He thinks he might stay here for hours.  He thinks - a bit wildly - that he might never leave.  Let Draco and Narcissa (and Potter, his brain supplies, before the name is obscured with white) come looking for him.  Let them look for wisdom or absolution; they will look in vain. Severus will be lying on his back in green grass and sunlight, body roughened by wind, skin scented by wildflowers. 

Two minutes later, the boy appears and Severus rethinks this plan.

"Hello!" the small child squeaks, peaking out over a tuft of longer grass.  He cannot be more than seven, with overlarge blue eyes and perfect blond ringlets that spill from beneath an azure tam.  As he marches toward him, Severus notices the boy's old-fashioned, Victorian wardrobe: short pants and a collared jacket.

"What's your name?  Do you play chess?  Only I haven't got a chess set, not a real one, but I like to imagine.   The other portraits don't often visit this painting, on account of my being overly precious. I don't know what that means, but it is the general feeling.   Do you play croquet? Only I haven't got any balls or mallets but mostly I use grass."

This wasn't quite what Severus feared when he set off into the unknown world outside his frame, but it is frightening nonetheless.

"Thank you, no."

"My name's Evelyn, only I'm told that's not a very good name for a boy.  At least, the children out there tell me that when I see them, which is why I hide in the grass so much.  Of course, soon they'll be gone for Christmas so I can do what I like." Evelyn brightens significantly at that.  Severus tries to look outside of the portrait, see if he can find their location within the school.  It isn't particularly easy when there's no one speaking to you on the other side - a bit like letting your vision go out of focus.  Eventually, Hogwarts appears before his blurred gaze.  They are across from the library, a difficult place for a portrait of a silly boy with an old-fashioned name. 

"Where are you from?"

"The dungeons," Severus says, peering over his shoulder.  The doorway to the portrait has vanished behind him, and a familiar panic begins to set in.

"I wish _I_ were in the dungeons.  Only I expect I'd be lonely.  It's nice to have other kids to talk to, even if they're a bit mean."

Severus frowns at Evelyn, a twinge of empathy running through him, despite his best efforts.

"Listen, um - young man, how does one get out of a portrait like this?  Only this is -"

"You're new!" Evelyn chirps, "That's dead brill! One of the children taught me that, dead brill, I quite like it."

"I'm very happy for you."

"It's difficult when you're new. Were you someone real? Only I think it's harder when you were real - you have all your memories and that.  And there were some very friendly milkmaids that used to visit me, and they were never real, and just had a grand time. They weren't ever sad about it." Evelyn studies his cherubic hands, while the wind rustles, kicking up a flurry of pollen and white petals. "I think _I_ was real.  Only it's difficult to remember.  I think my father painted me, after I died.  He was an artist.  But that was - that was quite long ago.  I wonder if anyone painted _him_? That would be lovely."

Severus has no idea what to say to this.

"You were the Headmaster, weren't you?" Evelyn says after a moment, any trace of melancholy vanishing from his bright eyes. "I recognize you now.  Sometimes you would come down this hallway at night, after I was done hiding.  Snake?"

"Snape," Severus corrects him, and Evelyn looks disappointed.

"That's too bad.  I rather like snakes. I'm not afraid of them, even a bit. I tried to keep one once, but Mrs. Redvers had a footman drown it in a sink, and after that Father bought me a spaniel."

Again, Severus looks over his shoulder, as if the door will materialize simply by the force of his desire.

Surprisingly enough, it does.

"That's how you leave the fields," Evelyn tells him, "You just think about leaving and then a door shows up. I don't like to leave so much. Will you come back, do you think?"

Evelyn is looking at him with so much hope that Severus finds himself momentarily unable to lie.  The silence and solitude of his potions lab seems simultaneously repellant and wildly appealing. 

 "Would you -" Severus begins, stupid and impulsive, "might I shake your hand?"

"Certainly.  Put 'er there.  The kids sometimes say that, put 'er there, so I'm trying it out."

Severus reaches out, and takes Evelyn's pudgy hand in his. He shakes twice, brusquely, and just that slight contact with another human being - or whatever they are here - is enough to make his throat tighten, a slight hitch rising in his chest.

"Are you quite well?" the boy asks, and Severus nods, beyond speaking.

He nods again in farewell, and Evelyn waves after him as he exits the painting.  No sooner has he stepped out of the lush landscape than he finds himself - not back in the hallway of doors - but in his own familiar room.  Severus gasps a breath, clutching at his chest where his heart pounds like a drum line.  He leans against the wall, squeezing his eyes closed. 

"All right, sir?" a low voice asks him, and Severus nearly jumps out of his skin to see a dark-haired young woman (Slytherin) standing in the hallway outside his painting.

Instead, he throws himself behind a desk, heedless of how dramatic he looks, and shouts "Go away!"

When he sticks his head back out again, the girl has gone, so thank heavens for small mercies.

Over the days or weeks (it is impossible to accurately keep track of time) that follow, Severus forces himself to leave his portrait at least once a day.  He goes to see Evelyn more often than not, and that's only because he has a crippling Catholic sense of guilt (inherited from his mother).  Besides, the boy isn't entirely useless. Severus gleans as much information as he can from the seven year old, and in between bouts of grass-croquet, he actually learns some things.  Most of the paintings in Hogwarts were painted during the lifetimes of their subjects, and thus the subjects have no memory of the later years of their lives.  The Headmasters' paintings, however, appear automatically, willed into existence by a castle that's more magical than anyone should be comfortable with. 

Severus knew this much as a living man, of course he did, but he never thought to apply this knowledge to himself. When he was appointed Headmaster, no (go back, farther back), when he murdered Albus Dumbledore on the top of the Astronomy Tower, he realized that his life was forfeit. It had been forfeit, certainly, for longer than that, and he hadn't held out much hope for a retirement spent by the sea, but when Albus fell...

...when Albus' eyes turned green then grey then blank as parchment, Severus felt his own life slip through his yellowed fingers. Fine as sand, and impossible to gather back together.

Even though he knew these things, even though he knew he was a dead man, and he knew that Albus' portrait hung in Hogwarts a mere few hours after his death, Severus never thought to apply this logic to his own life. To be fair, there were other things weighing rather heavily on him at the time (Harry Potter screaming, running after him like a wild thing, limned in copper and firelight.). 

He knew all this, and still he accepted the position of Headmaster, and made no plans, no preparations, did nothing. In all honesty, he deserves to live out the rest of his existence between heavy gold frames.  He deserves it. 

It still does not make it any easier.

Evelyn takes him to meet other portraits around the school, and it seems that wherever Severus goes, Lily's son has been there first. Most of the paintings greet him as something of a hero, and there is much hand-shaking and shoulder-patting (Severus often departs quickly to have small nervous breakdowns in the privacy of his own portrait).  Evelyn teaches Severus how to travel from frame to frame, calling to mind the portrait you wish to visit next.  He introduces Severus to the Fat Lady (Fortunata, as it turns out) whose taste in classical music and literature practically mirrors his own, and the two of them become - acquaintances.  Not friends.

Severus can count on one hand the number of people he considers friends. 

Evelyn takes Severus out of the school for the first time, which Severus (again) had known was possible, but couldn't begin to work out the mechanics on his own.  Apparently, one must be able to envision the painting to which they seek to travel. Evelyn brings Severus along to an enchanted watercolour of sailboats that used to hang in his home; it's in a gallery now, but Severus spends a not entirely unpleasant day being lulled to sleep by the rolling waves, the sour-sweet smell of the ocean in his nostrils and his lungs.  

There are numerous paintings in the gallery that Severus endeavours to memorize, making plans for further practice, but in the end there is only one painting that he feels he knows well enough to attempt the journey.

Walburga Black shrieks bloody murder at him, and Severus flees instantly (but with satisfaction.)  He does not leave the school often, but it is gratifying to know that he can.

He avoids Albus' portrait for as long as possible. And then, one day, he can avoid the visit no longer; Albus shows up in his classroom without so much as a by-your-leave and Severus thinks his heart might tear cleanly out of his chest.

"My dear boy," Albus says to him, beard white as snow, and spectacles doing nothing to conceal the twinkle in his eye. "Reunited at last."

Severus tries to speak, but his lips are too dry and won't stop shaking.

"I must admit that I was - perhaps - a bit insulted by your absence.  Particularly when I hear such stories about you and the Ashdown boy getting up to all kinds of mischief.  Mischief, now there is a word I would never has associated with you in life.  And yet, here we are."

Severus sits down on the edge of a desk, his legs unable to support his weight.

"Albus," he manages, but it sounds like a crow's cry.

"Not to mention your visits with Fortunata. She has been singingyour praises of late, a most unfortunate situation for the House of Gryffindor."

"I cannot -" Severus tries again, but his heart is racing, consuming every drop of blood in his body.

"Now, now," Albus say soothingly. "There is no need to upset yourself."

He wanders slowly through the potions class, violet robes trailing along the floor.  Severus bits down hard on the inside of his cheek, and his mouth tastes salt-sick and coppery, and he's _bleeding_ , Merlin, he can bleed -

"A potions class.  Of course.  I would have thought, perhaps, a library or your office, but then - our beloved school knows best.  Still, it is rather impersonal.  Could use a nice knitted throw, lavender, I think.  Or at least some tea cozies.  I shall see if any of our portraits have access to yarn and needles."

"Albus -"

"Severus Snape," Albus replies, mouth quirking.  "I do not come with the intention of letting you abase yourself, or profess your guilt or regret or anguish.  I merely thought it was high time to say hello."

He smiles sadly, the best and worst of all the men Severus has ever known.

"Hello, Severus."

"Hello," Severus replies.

"My brother is dead."

"Aberforth -" Severus begins, and then cuts himself off.  Aberforth had been invaluable to the Order, though he was not a man that Severus had ever been easy with.  Granted, there were not many who fit that description.  "How -"

"He has been ill these past few months," Albus tells him, sorrow lining his face, "More ill than I had thought, though he did his best to conceal it from me.  As you know, there were many - secrets between my brother and myself."

"Albus, I am - I am deeply sorry."

"Your sympathy is appreciated, my boy." Albus nods.  "Aberforth has had no portraits painted, so we shan't be seeing him any time in the future. But we made our peace, he and I. In the end, we - in the end. He is with Ariana now, and for that, I am certain, he is grateful."

"Of course." Severus searches for words.

"There is a service today in Hogsmeade Chapel, and not a portrait to be found, more's the pity.  I shall have to content myself with second-hand accounts, which - perhaps - is more than I deserve."  Dumbledore glances intently up at Severus, eyebrows twitching slightly (that is never a good sign, never).  "There is another reason for my visit this morning."

Dread creeps like vines over Severus' white skin.

"Surely not the pleasure of my company."

"Heavens, no," Albus chuckles, and Severus scowls at him.  "Only, many of our former students have returned for the funeral.  The school is simply rife with Weasleys -"

Severus snorts. "No doubt."

"And one Harry Potter, who just moments ago spoke with me at great length about his newly established Auror training. He left Hogwarts in March, as it happens.  Were you aware of this?"

"I was." Severus grinds his teeth, waiting for the inevitable fall-out from this preamble.

"He greatly desires to see you."

Severus knows this, though he does not understand. Their business is concluded, he and Potter.  Surely it ended when Severus' heart stopped beating.

"Of course, dear Harry had to depart for the funeral.  There just wasn't time."

Severus tries to sigh inaudibly, shoulders caving with relief.

"But I was certain you would be most eager to meet this afternoon.  I informed him of your portrait's new location, so as not to waste the young man's time."

"Albus," Severus snarls, rising instantly from his perch on the desk.  He can feel colour rushing to his face, the blotchy redness that always gathered on his cheekbones when he was angry or frightened or -

"Now, no one can keep you in this frame against your wishes.  You might have every reason to step out this afternoon, pressing appointments and the like." Albus smiles beatifically, stroking his beard.  "But I would hate for the young man to think you were too alarmed to see him.  Why, even a casual absence might be misconstrued 'running away.' Though of course that would not be your intent."

"Of course," Severus says quietly, looking at the floor, his hands, the rows upon rows of cauldrons.  Harry Potter coming to see him, coming this bloody afternoon -

"Do attempt to be civil," Albus says with a wink, making his way to the door, "I worry for the poor lad, after all. Some times I think, perhaps, that too much was asked of him."

Severus has no response, and Albus smiles again.

"Do not be a stranger, my boy. Or I shall be forced to check up on you from time to time, and I know how fond you are of unexpected visits."

Albus leaves the painting, robes trailing like spider silk after him, and Severus clutches his hands to his chest.

Harry sodding Potter.  Lily's sodding son.

Severus could flee, he knows this.  He needn't be expected to wait around on Potter's whim, when there is nothing he has to say to the young man.  Severus' obligations have been fulfilled and there is - there is no reason for the tension that races through him at the prospect of seeing Potter again.  He owes him nothing, _nothing_.

Severus thinks longingly of a foggy blue sea filled with boats, and the careless shriek of gulls.

Severus thinks of a field of wildflowers where he can lie on his back and be utterly invisible, consumed by leaves and petals.

Severus thinks of white hands on his throat ("look at me") and so much shame it spills like blood across his fingers.

He will not run away.

Silently, he sits down in the chair in the centre of his painting, steeples his fingers, and waits for the end of -

*            *            *

\-  the funeral takes place just outside of Hogsmeade, in an old country church.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so slow with the updating. I have been stricken with fanfic insecurity, agonizing over every word before deleting it all and hiding under my bed with the winter sweaters. It has been so long since I've published anything new - what happened to all my livejournal confidence? Hopefully things will be a bit quicker from here on in because of - wine? I don't know. Thanks for hanging in there, and thanks for the lovely comments and kudos. They are air and water.
> 
> As always, any feedback is totally adored. I feel like this world has become a bit unfamiliar, so if you think I'm doing it all wrong, please tell me! 
> 
> Okay, breakdown: over. New chapter: begun.

Silently, he sits down in the chair in the centre of his painting, steeples his fingers, and waits for the end of -

*            *            *

\-  the funeral takes place just outside of Hogsmeade, in an old country church. Harry's certain he's never seen it before.

He stops at Hogwarts first to pay his condolences to Dumbledore, and is surprised even then by how unfamiliar the school feels to him. As if the War changed every surface of Harry's former sanctuary to chalk and ashes, leaving marks on Harry's hands and clothing no matter how careful he is, how small he makes himself. Dumbledore says nothing, but even as a painting, Harry can tell that the former Headmaster knows much more than he lets on. 

It is a relief to escape into the fresh air again, even if the day is slate-grey and rainy (a day for funerals.)

Harry meets Ron, Hermione and Ginny just outside of Hogwarts, and the three of them walk a winding path through the tall grass until they reach the church.

Ginny seems a bit awkward around him, and Harry feels terrible about it, but what can he do, really?  After the funeral is finished, he swears he'll take her for a pint and a meal and they can talk, really talk about what's going on. He watches Hermione and Ron, arms wound around each other, while he can't even work up the nerve to take Ginny's hand. Ginny folds her arms in front of her while they walk, a wall between her body and Harry's. 

Numerous members of the Order are milling around the entrance to the church, and Harry is thoroughly hugged by Arthur and Molly Weasley, which makes Ginny's mouth twitch in a grudging smile. Professor - or _Headmistress_ McGonagall shakes Harry's hand, and Fleur kisses him on both cheeks and - as much as it is a funeral - it's also a reunion.

Even George Weasley is there, and - according to Ginny and Ron - it's nearly impossible to get him to leave his apartment these days. He's holed himself up in a flat above the new Wheezes shop in Hogsmeade, and there's a darkness around his eyes that Harry is far too familiar with.  George has lost weight, and looks ten years older, but when he cracks a smile it's as if no time at all has passed, and he's the same boy Harry met nine years ago at Kings Cross. 

"Steady on, old son," George laughs, "Look about as terrible as I do.  What are they doing to you at that bookstore of yours?"

"It's a library, George," Percy sniffs, overhearing. "And only one of the most prestigious institutions in the world."

"I've insulted his girlfriend," George says quietly as everyone filters inside.  He pauses then, as if waiting for someone to continue the joke, fill in the other side of the conversation.  No one does, and George claps Harry a bit too hard on the shoulder before finding a seat next to his parents. 

Harry doesn't have much of a history with churches, the Dursleys being staunchly agnostic, and most of the Wizarding World not going in for organized religion.  The service isn't long - Rosmerta speaks (her voice breaking only once, and Hermione squeezes hard on Harry's wrist) as does McGonagall and a few colourful and foul-mouthed old men who must have been Aberforth's friends.  There's no body, thank Merlin; Harry's seen enough bodies to last a lifetime.

When the whole thing is finished, he would really like nothing better than to flee back to London, but he knows that a talk with Gin is long overdue.  As he rises, turning toward the back of the church, Harry sees him: a flash of black hair and blacker robes slipping out the doors as silent as smoke.

Severus Snape.

Harry cannot move or speak for a moment.

"Harry?" Ginny asks, "Harry, what's -"

Ron and Hermione are getting to their feet, looking at him oddly.

"I've got to go," Harry tells them, "Snape is here.  That was Snape, and I can't let him - I've got to catch him before -"

"Why?" Ginny demands, and it takes Harry a moment to dissect his own urgency.  There was a reason, he's certain of it; he has to stop Snape and talk to him because - because -

The books!  The books, right.  That's why his heart is racing, because _this_ , this is his chance.

Promising to meet his friends at Rosmerta's, Harry weaves around the other mourners, heading for the doors.  He bursts outside, where the rain is falling harder, kicking up mist from the cobblestone path that winds back to Hogsmeade. Hurrying down that path is a solitary figure, dressed all in black beneath a small black umbrella. Heedless of the rain, Harry jogs after him.

The sound of the rain thankfully obscures the sound of his footsteps, or Harry is certain Snape would have hexed him before Harry reached his side.  As it is, Harry's hand is barely on his shoulder when Snape spins, wand outstretched, thin lips pulled back in an ugly snarl.

"Potter!" Snape spits, "I should have known I wouldn't be so lucky as to escape your notice."

"Snape," Harry says, catching his breath. Water runs down his neck, pooling under the collar of his robes.  He wipes his face.

"Oh for god's sake," Snape hisses, " _Parapluvia."_

The rain stops falling on Harry, kept at bay by the translucent shield that appears just above his head.  Snape rolls his eyes disgustedly, before turning on his heel and continuing down the path.

"No, wait," Harry follows. "I have to talk to you."

"So you've said, time and again, Mr. Potter. I fail to see what we have to discuss and am late for engagements infinitely more pressing than this one."

Snape's legs are longer than Harry's, who has to take two steps for each of the older man's.  It isn't really the best opportunity to launch into an explanation of a mystery that isn't really a mystery, but Harry doesn't know if he'll ever get another chance.

"I work at the Wizarding Library of London, now. Did you know that?"

Snape does not reply.

"I left Hogwarts for - well, it's not important. I've wanted to get in touch with you -"

"Scintillating stuff, this," Snape says, quickening his step.

"Someone's been vandalizing books where I work, um - potions books, mostly, and I wondered if I might talk to you about it? Maybe you'd have some ideas what -"

Snape stops abruptly, and Harry almost crashes into him. He whirls around, eyes black and furious and Harry steels himself against the oncoming tirade. 

"Potter, I believe I made my position on you and whatever it is you have to say a year and a half ago in sodding London - I am not interested.  I do not see why you feel compelled to seek me out, unless of course you are seeking some sort of absolution which I damned well will not give.  You saved us all, _well done you_ , but I am not one of your admirers and I am not one of your friends, and I have done my part.  I am - I am finished with this war."

Harry wasn't completely prepared for that. He lets Snape walk away for just a moment, taking a deep breath against the injury in Snape's words. Disdain, cruelty - those are things Harry can handle, but the pain, the withering sadness beneath Snape's vitriol - it is difficult to bear.  Maybe more difficult because Harry knows exactly how he feels.

Harry takes another breath, and still follows.

"I don't need a friend, or an admirer," he tells Snape's back, "I need a potions expert."

"Take out an advert," Snape says, not turning.

"There were notes in one of the books," Harry continues, as Hogsmeade grows ever nearer.  "Notes that I recognize from your - your book. Whoever's doing this has seen your copy of _Advanced Potions_."

Snape snorts.  "Or perhaps they just came to similar conclusions. Difficult as it may be to believe, Potter, not everyone is as abysmal at the subject as you."

"Professor - "

"Don't call me that," Snape says, turning as quickly as a snake would strike.  "That is not who I am."

He presses his lips together, white against white, and Harry wishes with a deep and frightening intensity that he could make Snape - feel better.  His whole "saving people thing" Hermione would say, but it isn't that. This isn't about being selfless. It's something entirely different, and Harry cannot place it.

"I was surprised to see you at the funeral," he says quietly.

"I was surprised to see myself there," Snape replies.  "Blasted Ministry hasn't seen fit to restore my Apparation license, so I'm reduced to the sodding Floo.  If you want to make yourself useful, start a petition. I know you do so love to come to my rescue."

The hanging sign of the Three Broomsticks creaks in the rising wind, and Snape fixes it with an alarmed look.  In that split second of distraction, Harry takes a chance.

"They tore three pages from _Venenum Historia_ by Pliny the Shorter," he says quickly.

Snape turns distractedly back toward him.

"What did you say?"

"Three pages from -"

"Yes, I heard that much.  _Venenum Historia?_ " Snape looks positively livid; Harry thinks briefly that Penny Peggotty would love him.  "Do you - do you have any idea how old that book is?  Any idea how valuable?"

"Some," Harry nods, feeling a bit proud of himself.

"I had no idea your institution even had a copy of it.  It must be a fairly recent acquisition, but that would leave the copy in New Delhi and -" Snape narrows his eyes.  "Are you - grinning?  What is wrong with you?"

"Sorry." Harry forces the grin off his face, bites down on his cheek until he fears he might break the skin.

"What else?  What else did they take?"

"Um, a really old French book - I wrote it down -"

" _Les Elixirs Anciennes_ ," Snape says quickly, and Harry nods.

"Yeah - wow, good guess."

"That is simply - unthinkable. They aren't employing you as a security guard, are they?  That's the only excuse I can fathom."

"Cheers, no.  Just an assistant librarian."

 Snape does not look reassured.  Coming down the path toward them, Harry can make out the ginger hair of several Weasleys, and a sea of black umbrellas.  In her mid-length red coat, Ginny stands out like a streetlight, and she is very obviously staring at Harry.

"I have to go," Snape says, following Harry's gaze.

"You won't stay for the wake?"

Snape gives him his patented you-are-being-an-idiot look, and Harry shrugs.  He's been given worse looks by Severus Snape.

"Will you help me?" Harry asks, knowing he's pushing it, but seeing no other solutions.

"I will - consider it," Snape nods abruptly and Harry wants to crow with victory (he'll consider it, he'll bloody consider it).

"We could - meet, maybe?  Some time?  I'll buy you a coffee and you can take a look at the books. In London, or would you rather -"

"Calm yourself, Potter.  I'm more than capable of finding my way to Will, like any common tourist."

"Will?" Harry blurts out, before Snape can disappear into Potage's Cauldron Shop. 

Snape looks at him, a bit mystified.

"Your place of employment?" he says slowly, "Have you forgotten it so quickly?"

"But you called it Will," Harry says, fighting down another smile.

"Well spotted - that's what I've always called it, what else -" Snape gives up, shaking his head.  He doesn't say goodbye, but twists his hand slightly before lowering his umbrella and going inside.  Harry mistakes the gesture for a wave, until he feels the cold rain once again running down his neck.

"Caught old Snape, did you?" Ron asks, slinging an arm over Harry's shoulder as he catches up with him.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I did."

"And is he going to help you solve some mysteries? Be the Holmes to your Watson?"

"Guess we'll see," Harry says, and does not miss the way Hermione is looking at him, a strange kind of curiosity in her gaze.  Ginny is hanging back on the path, and Harry catches her eye, attempts a half smile that he doesn't quite manage. 

"Coming Gin?"

Ginny nods, but does not answer, and Harry feels cold from more than just the rain.

It shouldn't come as a surprise when, two hours later, he finds himself broken up with.  Somehow, it still does.

"No," is the first word out of Harry's mouth, as if that word can somehow force time to slide back before this moment, like a key locking a door shut.  They are sitting alone in a booth at the Three Broomsticks, but the pub is crowded with their friends, the air full of music.  This cannot be happening - not here, not where anyone can see, not when he thought he still had time -

"I'm sorry.  I just - I can't pretend that this is working any more," Ginny says, staring into her cider. "You shouldn't either. And I'm not going to wait around until we see each other again six months from now, or whenever we manage it. You haven't exactly made an effort to -"

"Well, we've been busy," Harry says, trying to keep his voice low and prevent curious eyes from being drawn to them. "We've both been -"

" _I've_ been busy, Harry.  You've been -" She trails off, and sighs.  "You've been missing."

They are both silent.  Across the bar, Harry can hear drunken shouting from some of Aberforth's friends, and the soft murmurs of recollection from the more sober members of their party.  He feels the sting of Ginny's words, but can't bring himself to deny them. 

"I knew this would happen," Ginny says, and now that she's looking at him, he can see how red-rimmed her eyes are. "And I want to help you, to be your friend and -" She shakes her head. "You know that this isn't a relationship. Not really.  At least, it's not the kind I want. "

"Gin -"

"You chose me because you thought you should.   Maybe - maybe that's why I -" Ginny's voice breaks, "Actually, no, I was completely mad about you.  But it's not enough. For me.  For either of us."

Ron and Hermione approach with fresh drinks. Thankfully, Hermione sees Harry's face and directs Ron firmly toward a different table. 

"I love you," Harry says, feeling a great grey wave of emptiness wash over him, draining the colour from the room. He knew things were bad, but he hadn't known how bad they were.  He always thought he'd have a chance to make it up to her, a chance to do things differently.  A chance that shone somewhere in the far-off future like a lighthouse - beautiful and impossible to reach. 

"I love you too." Ginny lays her hand over his on the table.  For a few minutes they stay like that, and Harry tries to memorize the warmth of her palm, the calluses from gripping her broomstick, the pulse of her wrist against his arm.  He wishes briefly that he could freeze this moment, with the people he loves all around him, and this beautiful girl's soft hand covering his.  He's been a terrible boyfriend, and she deserves so much more. Maybe they were only ever together because of the terror of violence and the crushing relief of survival. Maybe  - maybe she's right, and he chose her because he thought it was the end of the story, and he couldn't envision anything beyond that.

"I thought - I thought I would die," he says suddenly, and he doesn't know where it comes from, but he has to say it or he'll choke.

Ginny slams her eyes shut. 

"I know." When she looks at him again, her mouth is only trembling slightly.  "Lots of people did, and some of them - some of them were right. But you didn't die. And I didn't either." She gives his hand a final squeeze, and gets to her feet.  "I'm going to go, okay?  Can you not - not talk to me for a bit? I know that sounds mean, but I just - until this is easier, I just need -"

"Gin, I'm so sorry -"

"Don't apologize.  I'm making this choice.  Living means - making choices." Ginny shrugs on her red coat, and pulls her hair out from the collar.  "You might think on that, Harry."

She brushes her lips across his cheek, and is gone, leaving whispers of citrus shampoo lingering behind her.

Harry doesn't cry until he's made his way outside, and even then, he isn't sure if it's about Ginny alone or Ginny _and_ everything else.   The streetlights shine on the wet pavement, and at first all he can hear is his breathing, but then he can hear something else, scraping like a shovel over stone (the War dragging its sharp heels down the gravel alleyway, getting nearer and nearer, louder, so close Harry can feel its breath against his neck, don't think about it, _don't think about it DON'T_ -)

He's sick just as Ron comes out to look for him, and a window shatters in the shop across the street. Ron blessedly doesn't mention it.  Instead, he sits down beside Harry, puts a hand on Harry's back and a roll-up to his lips.

"You - you smoke now?" Harry manages, too surprised for a moment to remember the spin of the earth below his feet.

"Don't say anything to 'Mione." Ron puffs and sighs.  "Ginny did it, then?"

Harry scrubs a hand over his eyes.  "Tell me you didn't know."

"Nah.  Had a suspicion, though.  You okay?"

"I - don't know," Harry says, before he gives himself time to think about it.  "A bit hard to tell."

"I know what that's like," Ron says wryly, and his hand does not move from Harry's back. 

They sit together in the misty night, Harry watching the rise and fall of Ron's cigarette, the jewel-bright glow of the ember. He thought he would die - but he didn't.  Whatever the cost, whatever the weight that hangs on him, he is alive. 

It has to count for -

*            *            *

\- something wakes Severus from his foggy portrait dreams, just colours and vague scents, the kind of dream you puzzle over in the morning, unable to remember if you dreamt or not.  He fully expects to see a dark-haired boy wizard taking up valuable space in his solitary corridor - but he does not.

Instead, he sees a rather plump, blond young man, standing silently in front of the portrait.  He is looking down at his small hands, nervously turning a ring around and around on his fourth finger.   Severus waits for a moment before clearing his throat, and the blond man (a bit familiar, actually) looks up with startled brown eyes.

"Prof - Headmaster -" the man sputters in a soft, high voice, and Severus realizes why exactly the man is familiar. Severus has seen him several times (on various excursions with Evelyn and Fortunata) coming in and out of the dungeons, often carrying great sacks of wilted greenery. Of course, Severus has heard the name before but he's really quite hopeful that this won't be the man in -

"Alcott Prawn, the - uh - the new Potions Master. Here.  At Hogwarts, of course, where else would I be - though I studied all over, offered an apprenticeship at Durmstrang but the winters there aren't quite -"

Prawn trails off, and Severus takes a moment to be thankful that at least it isn't Potter, before lamenting the fact that it is Alcott Prawn.

"You remember me, I suppose?" Prawn asks, and Severus does.  His first or second year of teaching, Prawn was a mediocre student from a mediocre family, and the fact that he's risen to the rank of Severus' former position is heartening indeed.

Severus does not reply to the question, merely nods, but Prawn seems overwhelmed just the same.

"Of course, of course.  Um - I know this might be an imposition, but - but you see I've been having some trouble in the classroom lately. Nothing significant just - you know - this and that, occasional explosions, the regular -"

"Explosions," Severus remarks before he can stop himself.  He isn't (frankly) surprised; he can remember the odd explosion from Alcott's day (although the memories have gone pale green around the edges, Severus can feel them fading even now.)

"Yes, just - rather odd, actually. Only two weeks ago we were making the Alihotsy Draught, and nearly every cauldron in the room just - whoosh - went up, just like that."  Prawn throws his arms up in the air for dramatic emphasis, and Severus winces. "Of course, you can imagine - the class became completely hysterical, for various reasons and - I just chalked it up to poor chopping form but then this past Friday, I had four - no - five students in for detention and they were brewing a standard Snuffling Potion - elementary stuff and -"

"Explosions?" Severus asks, raising his eyebrow. 

"Indeed yes!" Prawn remarks, nodding keenly. "Bizarre, frankly. Which has set me to wondering about the quality of those cauldrons down there - do you think perhaps it's time we upgraded to a newer model?  After years of use and disuse, well - one really doesn't know what was done previously, what care was taken -"

"I can assure you, Mr. Prawn," Severus interrupts, "that _every_ care was taken during my time as Potions Master - some sixteen years now. This is your - first year as a professor, is it not?"

"Um - yes, sir, of course sir. No offense meant. I only wondered -"

"What was the age of the Alihotsy you were using? Was it dry or fresh? Where was it purchased?"

"Um -" Prawn's gaze shifts nervously from one corner of the room to the other.  "Well, I don't really - it was there when I started so I didn't think it necessary - I didn't -"

"You mean to tell me you are using ingredients the source of which you have not personally verified?  Ingredients that could have been mislabeled or expired or contaminated or worse?  And you are using these ingredients around children that are in your care, with whose protection you have been charged?"

"Um - well when you put it like that -"

"I would suggest taking inventory of that potions supply room immediately.  If you still find yourself having problems, do the responsible thing and resign."

"Now, see here -"

"I'm expecting someone," Severus snaps, and it takes him a good few seconds to realize what he's said. Good god.

Prawn looks a bit purple in the face, and he turns in a huff, footsteps echoing as he stomps away down the hallway.   Severus hears those footsteps grow gradually slower, then begin to increase in volume as Prawn returns. Severus cannot quite make out his figure in the dim hallway, but if Prawn is coming back with an angry tirade or something similar, he will find himself more than evenly matched. Severus hasn't flung insults at anyone since he was still alive, and he can't say he doesn't miss it.

Of course it _isn't_ Prawn. Of course it isn't. Severus realizes that much the moment his visitor steps into the pool of torchlight. Severus should have known it much earlier, and if he had been paying attention, if he had been listening, _really listening_ , he would have. There are some people who breathe a certain way, who walk and move with a certain cadence that leaves impressions behind your eyelids, like you looked too long at a bright light.

 Harry Potter stands in silence, just staring at him.

Severus stares back.  His mouth feels inexplicably dry.

"Hello," Potter says, and his words echo in the emptiness, bat like birds against the canvas (Severus lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.).

He has not seen Potter since - since Severus took his last breath.  More than a year ago, now. The boy looks tired, Severus can say that much.  He is no taller, but seems more angular somehow, elbows and knees and cheekbones. His eyes are a darker green, and a bit swollen as if he has been crying (over Aberforth, Severus thinks, or something else?  He wonders if Potter is the kind of young man who cries at funerals, who isn't afraid to let sorrow spill over, even in public spaces.  Even when he could be mocked or beaten for it.). 

"You're awake," Potter continues before Severus can respond.  "I didn't - I didn't know until this morning.  I spoke to Dumbledore."

"I am aware," Severus grinds through clenched teeth.

"You - oh, of course.  Probably visits loads with you." Potter fiddles with his hands, the collar of his jacket.  Severus thought he would enjoy seeing the boy so discomfited. At Hogwarts, Potter could do no bloody wrong, walked the halls like he owned them.

Not anymore.  Whoever this is that stands in Severus' sad little dungeon corridor, he is not the Chosen One.  He is infinitely older than the Boy Who Lived. 

"Are you Severus Snape?" Potter asks, each word slow and calculating, and Severus stares at him, totally at a loss.

"Is the likeness that abysmal?"

"That's a start," Potter says, but he still seems hesitant, unconvinced.  "What do you remember?  Do you remember - how you -"

_A small room and a young man crouching over him, white hands and a white mouth shaking -_

"I do not need a re-telling of events, if that is what you are offering."

Potter fixes him with an assessing look. Severus wonders who the blazes Potter thinks he would be if not Severus Snape - but then not every painting remembers the person it used to be.  Some days, Severus thinks he himself is forgetting, losing his past in inches.

"I wanted - I came here - " Potter trails off.  "I used to come and talk to you. Before you woke up."

Severus knows this, though he wishes he didn't.

"As flagrant a disregard for my privacy as ever, I see."

"No, it wasn't like - " Potter sighs. He keeps moving hesitantly closer, as if Severus is likely to leap from the canvas and snap at his fingers. "I just wanted to be here. When you woke up."

Severus thinks of fairytales with sleeping maidens trapped behind high and thorny walls.  He almost says the words "handsome prince" before he realizes the shape his lips are forming and cuts it off like a dead blossom.

"I - " Potter continues, heedless of the nonsense rolling through Severus' empty skull.  "I wanted to be here.  So I could - could see you and say that I -"

"Don't."  Severus manages this much at least, willing the word so full of wandless magic that the voice will be stolen from Potter's lungs (he does not need to hear this, he should not be expected to bear -)

"-was sorry, was _so_ sorry," Potter finishes in a rush.

And just like that, the words have been said.

Severus has been expecting them.  He had not been expecting the visceral reaction he would have to them, however, throat trying to close up and choke off what little life is left in him.  He had not expected the shame (like heat) against his face; if Harry Potter thinks he must atone, god knows what he expects of Severus.

"You do not owe me an apology," Severus manages.  He regrets his words as soon as Potter starts to speak.

"I - you died for us, Snape, you - the only reason we won the bloody war was because of you and - you brought the sword and you took the fall - if he had known it was my wand, if he had known it was me, he would never have -"  Harry stops speaking, and Severus watches him idly twist at a button on his sleeve. His hands are large and pale, no calluses that Severus can make out.  He wonders when the boy stopped playing Quidditch. "We would have lost, without you.  I would have - died, probably."

For a brief moment of uncharacteristic selflessness, Severus is glad to be dead.  He is. He is glad of the snake that tore out his throat, and the blood that saturated fabric, pooled against floorboards, the wands that circled him, flashing green.   The War is over, but Severus would die for Harry Potter over and over again.  He did not know this until this very moment, Potter's shadow falling softly over broken brick and polished stone.  He did not know this, until Potter's thin fingers undid and redid that black button on his coat.

Good lord.

"But you did not die, Mr. Potter," Severus says, trying unsuccessfully to keep his tone cold.  "I have heard much about the outcome of the War. You are the Boy Who Kept Living."

"Don't call me that, please," Potter says quietly.  "That's - that's not who I am."

"I have also heard, from Albus, that you are attending Auror training at present.  How - appropriate."

Potter nods, and Severus racks his brain for equally innocuous questions.  He's never been one for small talk - particularly not in portrait form with the young man who watched him die. 

"I don't like it," Potter says quietly, rescuing Severus.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The training.   I really don't. Everyone thinks it's something I'm supposed to do, everyone thinks it's my dream, and even I thought it was but - but it's not.  I _hate_ it."

This is more emotion than Severus is comfortable with. Several sarcastic comments make their way towards his tongue, but he swallows them.  It isn't as if he gives a damn about hurting Potter's feelings, and it isn't as if he's trying to be civil or polite.

But he is concerned.  Potter looks as though a strong wind might crack him in half, and Severus cannot bring himself to murder Lily's son with a carelessly thrown insult.

"Then why do you continue?" Severus asks, legitimately curious.

Potter does not do anything for a long moment, almost as if he doesn't know the answer.

"Because - because I've got to do something, don't I?  I mean, everyone's expecting me to  -"

Severus snorts.  "You defeated the most powerful Dark Wizard the world has ever known.  No one - _no one_ \- expects anything from you."

Potter laughs bitterly, more bitterly than anyone his age ought to manage.

"Know that, do you?" Potter says. "You may not be wrong often, but you're wrong about this."

Severus did not sign up to be a career counselor, no matter how celebrated the recipient (or warranted his advice might be).

"Do what you want, Potter," he manages, "Merlin knows you always have.  And if anyone gives you grief, just remind them who vanquished the Dark Lord twice before they turned eighteen."

The corner of Potter's mouth quirks, just slightly, and he glances shyly up at Severus.

"That sounded suspiciously like a compliment."

"Heaven forfend."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then send them my way," Severus says, shocking both Potter and himself.  Again and again, he comes to Harry Potter's defense, like some sort of sad and loyal terrier. Is he incapable of leaving the boy to his own devices? Surely Potter's survived this long; Severus should be able to breathe easy by now.  Severus should be able to consider his debts paid in full and then some.

He cannot.  He does not.

"I've left everyone at the Three Broomsticks. That's where the wake is. Oh God - someone _has_ told you about-"

"Yes." Severus cuts Harry off before he can tearfully deliver the news of Aberforth's passing.  

Potter's eyes dart to the far corners of the hallway and back again, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

"Do you get - lonely down here, or anything? Do people come and see you, or -"

"Far more than I would wish," Severus tells him and Potter laughs. 

He laughs. 

Severus thinks perhaps it is the first time he has ever made Potter laugh, and he never expected the experience to be so thrilling. Never expected the hot hum of satisfaction, of _pleasure_ even, running up his arms and spine, like a plant being bathed in sunlight. 

He did not know his painted body could experience anything of the kind.

"I've always wondered what it must be like to be a portrait.  Can you leave your frame? Can you leave the school, even? I remember other paintings doing that."

"How pleasant for you.  Yes, I am able to travel, though my destinations are limited."

"Making - friends, or -"

Severus stops him with a glare that could curdle milk and wither flowers.

"Loads," he says as sarcastically as possible, and Potter blushes to the roots of his ridiculous hair (Severus helplessly watches the slow-traveling colour, the pink of Queen Elizabeth roses).

"Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from them. I'll go, shall I?"

"No doubt you have many pressing appointments."

Again, Potter's lips twitch, though there is less humour and more bitterness.

"That's me, all right.  Pressing appointments."  He runs an agitated hand through his fringe, and Severus waits for the inevitable fall out.  "Could I come back, ever?  Would you want to - talk to someone, or -"

"With regard to what?" Severus snaps, a bit more cruelly than he intends.  "Fond memories of old times, perhaps?  Forgive me, but I have no interest in swapping war stories with you. You've said your piece, and I have heard you out, and we needn't trouble each other further."

"But -"

"We have nothing more to discuss, as far as I am concerned.  I am finished with this war, Mr. Potter."  Severus says this, and all the while he knows that he is lying. He is not finished with the War, no more than the War is finished with him (some nights  he hears it scratching around the edges of his canvas, pulling threads in its mad haste to get inside).

"You're right.  Of course you're right." Potter nods, as if trying to convince himself.  "What would we have to talk about?"

Severus says nothing.

"My mother, maybe," Potter says, and if Severus had limbs he might have slapped the imbecile.  "The memories you left me -"

Severus radiates fury so hot that by rights the painting should sizzle clean from the wall. 

"That is not up for discussion."

"You thought you would die," Harry says quietly.  "That's the only reason you were - were honest with me."

"If I recall correctly, I _did_ die, Potter.  How remarkable my insight must have been."

"Professor, I'm _-"_

"Stop."  _Stop, Merlin please. If Severus has to hear the word 'sorry' again, he will claw his own eyes out._

"I won't say it," Harry says quickly. "I am, but I won't say it anymore."

His lips are pressed thin, but he does not look sad. Only tired.

"Do not keep your friends waiting." When Potter says nothing, Severus foolishly continues.  "You have never before seen Arthur Weasley intoxicated.  It is not an experience I would rob you of.  This dungeon corridor falls short by comparison."

A strange expression crosses Potter's face, like he wants to smile but won't let himself.  Severus wishes - suddenly and without reason - that he would.

"Goodbye then, Snape."

"Goodbye then, H-" Severus cuts himself off as his mouth shapes the name 'Harry' through no design of his own. He doesn't say anything for a moment, so astonished by his near mistake, and Potter watches him oddly until Severus grinds out "Potter," between his uneven teeth, forces his body to obey him.

He is not on a first name basis with the bloody Chosen One. 

The Chosen One in question nods, turning away and walking down the corridor.  Severus looks at his clenched fists, the floor of the potions class, anything so as not to watch Potter walk away. 

That will be the end of it, then.  He does not imagine that he will see Lily's son again.   Perhaps he will hear about him - no doubt Albus won't be able to resist keeping Severus updated on Potter's numerous exploits and accolades (and marriages, certainly), but he cannot imagine Potter will ever feel the need to return to this dank little corner of the world.

It feels odd, really, this sense of finality. It feels a bit like waking up in a strange classroom, without sight or sound or sensation, just blind and clutching grief.

Sitting in his chair, Severus wills his hands to stop digging jagged fingernails into the arms.  This will be the end of it, he tells himself.  This will be the end.

Except that it isn't.

He cannot say how much time has passed, but it cannot be more than a few hours before Evelyn comes bursting into his portrait, eyes wide with intrigue.

"Mr. Snake!" he cries out, as Severus forces his heart out of his mouth. 

"Snape."

"Snape, right - sorry.  You'll never guess!"

"Does this have to do with milkmaids?" Severus says archly, but Evelyn looks blessedly ignorant.

"No, sir, it's loads better!  I was just talking to Miss Fortunata, who had been talking to Sir Nicholas, and and AAAAAND -"

Severus rubs his temples.  It seems like every day he regains some semblance of his human form.  Today, for instance, he is learning that he possesses the wherewithal to have a headache.

"The Headmistress has offered Mr. Harry Potter the Defense Against the Dark Arts position!  Can you imagine?  Harry Potter teaching at _our_ school?"

Severus can imagine it.  He really should have expected as much (because he will never be finished with Harry Potter, not now, not ever. It was too much to hope for.).

"I wonder if he'll ever use the library? I was always too shy to speak with him when he was a student, you know, but I feel loads more confident now. I think it is the result of _our_ close friendship!" Evelyn beam at him, and Severus does not roll his eyes, he does not.

"Are you aware as to whether Mr. Potter has accepted the Headmistress' offer?"

"Oh."  Evelyn's face falls.  "No, I don't think he has.  Sir Nicholas told Miss Fortunata that Mr. Potter told the Headmistress he'd think about it.  I think that sounds well promising, don't you?"

"We will see, I suppose." That is a good enough answer for the present.  Good god, not hours ago Severus was telling Potter to do whatever he wanted, and that might very well be taking a teaching position at Hogwarts.  This, _this_ is why Severus should not be allowed to speak to former students. Or current students. Or anyone, really.

Evelyn sighs, theatrically.  "Oh, if he doesn't come teach here, I shall die, I surely will!" He grows serious suddenly, cocking his head and studying Severus.  They have had conversations about the affectedness of this whole cocked-head business, but it obviously hasn't made much of an impact.

"Do you hate him?" Evelyn asks.

"What?  Who?"

"Mr. Harry Potter.  Only you seem to be so angry whenever anyone brings him up.  I just thought - was he rude to you?"

Severus snorts.  "A bit."

"But he seems so nice.  And handsome.  Fortunata thinks he's very handsome, anyway.  Do you?"

"Certainly not," Severus splutters.

"Then why have you turned all pinky red?"

"Because - because I do not want to have this conversation with you.  I have had a long and trying day, and I am tired, and I simply wish to be left -"

"So you don't hate Harry Potter?"

" _No_ , I -" Severus stops.  Repeats the last two words he said, silently.  Repeats them again, in the desperate hope that they will begin to make sense.

"So you like him, then?"

"Evelyn," Severus snarls, beyond reason at this point.  "You are being. Overly.  Precious."

"Oh!  Sorry." He smiles sheepishly at Severus, who rolls his eyes.  This is the reason he is such good friends with a seven year old; he can be as nasty as he likes, and nothing makes a dent.  "Well, I suppose I'll see you later.  We're going to that Irish landscape tomorrow, yes? Only I told Miss Fortunata I'd bring her some heather."

Severus nods abruptly, and Evelyn favours him with another smile before vanishing through the doorway, leaving Severus alone once again.

Harry Potter will not take over the DADA position. He will not come to Hogwarts. That much is simply out of the question.

Two weeks later, the boy does.  Of course he does -

*            *            *

\- not know when he expects Snape to show up at Will.  


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks later, the boy does.  Of course he does -

***

\- not know when he expects Snape to show up at Will, or _if_ he even expects it, truth be told.  

Snape could very well have been just trying to get rid of him at the funeral, and while his passion and outrage for the books themselves seemed genuine, Harry still can't forget his furious speech ("I am not your admirer and I am not your friend- ").  He is simultaneously filled with dread and anticipation at the thought of seeing Snape again, and it occupies a good deal more of his thoughts than it ought.  Not that that's anything new really.  For Harry, thinking about Snape has become a bit like poking at a sore tooth.  You know it will hurt, and it _does_ hurt - but you can't stop. 

Surely it should be _Ginny_ he's obsessing over, Ginny who circles around and around in his late-night, panicked thoughts.  He misses her, he does, but the only real evidence of her absence is a lack of letters on his doorstep.  They saw each other so infrequently in the past year that the transition from being with Ginny to being alone is surprisingly unremarkable.  Harry's felt alone for years, felt alone since a War ended and started chewing at his heels like a stray dog.  Harry's felt alone since he put his head in a Pensieve and realized he was wrong, wrong about absolutely everything of importance. 

So he thinks about Snape.  He thinks about Snape and Harry's mom, and Snape and Dumbledore, and Snape and a great bloody snake, turning the Shrieking Shack scarlet.  Sometimes on a tea break Harry will see a dark-haired man across the street and his whole body will go tense, certain it's him ( _finally_ , Harry thinks on one such occasion, and has no idea where that word came from).  Sometimes when he's reshelving books, he'll catch the whisper of black robes against the floor and be unable to move or breathe for a good two minutes.  He has no idea why he's getting so worked up about it.  

And it's never Snape, as it happens.  

Until the day it is.  

There's been one more vandalized book, an ancient Latin thing that focuses more on herbs than potions.  Peggotty's on the warpath, and seems to regard the whole thing more and more as Harry's responsibility.  Harry supposes it serves him right for showing an interest, and he's done some cursory research on the books in question, but there aren't any other copies in London - or even in the UK, for that matter.  He's considering sending another desperate owl in search of Snape when the man shows up at the front desk as surly and unbothered as ever (not even caring that his presence sends Harry's pulse skyrocketing, makes his hands clench like vices on the edge of the desk, for no bloody reason at all).

It's been raining outside, winter approaching.  There are a few drops of moisture in Snape's lank hair, and glinting like diamonds on the shoulders of his huge grey coat.  The coat is so large and warm and wooly-looking that Harry feels the need to stare at it, cannot tear his eyes away.  He has never seen Snape looking so - so normal.  Harry doesn't even realize that he hasn't said or done anything - a word of greeting, a nod, _nothing -_ until Snape clears his throat exaggeratedly.

"Oh," Harry stammers, "Hi.  Hi, I - yes.  I wasn't expecting to see you."

"I did tell you I was coming.  Or do my words just make that little of an impact?"

"No, of course - I just didn't know when.  Um." Harry smiles, fumbling for words.  "It is good to see you."

Snape looks at him strangely, and Harry finds - just as strangely - that he means it.  He hasn't seen Ron or Hermione more than once in the weeks since the funeral, hasn't even spoken to Ginny (he's giving her time, like she asked for) but he hadn't thought he was lonely until Snape came and loomed over him in the library, all dark eyes and sneering lips and ridiculous winter coat (for god's sake, it's not even November yet.).

"You may cease with the pleasantries, Potter.  I assure you this isn't a social call.  I simply wish to examine the books of which you told me, and then I will be on my way."

"Right.  Of course."  Harry has all the damaged books in a locked cabinet in the back office.  He leaves the front desk to retrieve them, and when he gets back, Penny Peggotty is floating over Snape like a vengeful ghost from his past.  Harry almost drops the books in his haste to get between them (and that would probably have cost him his job and his life, right there).

"Ms. Peggotty," he says, smiling.  "I see you've met Prof - er, Mr. Snape.  He was my Potions Master back at Hogwarts, and he's kindly agreed to -"

"Severus Snape," Peggotty hisses, hands clawing at the air, "I remember you.  I remember your dark deeds as if they happened yesterday."

Snape has gone a bit paler than normal, but Harry is more than ready to launch into his well-memorized speech on what Snape did for the war effort, about his tireless self-sacrifice and near death and loyalty above all.  He's pulled this speech out on several occasions (usually to his friends' mortification) because there seems no end of drunk blokes in pubs with definite opinions on "Death Eater scum", but Harry doesn't care if he gets sacked right now.  No one is allowed to say a word against Severus Snape in his presence, and that's just the bloody way of things.

"Ms. Peggotty," Harry begins, hotly, but she ignores him.

"This type of man belongs nowhere near our precious books.  _You_ ," the librarian continues, pointing a finger at Snape in accusation, " _You_ owe nearly three pounds in late fees from February 6th, 1982!  Of all the disrespectful, heedless, _careless_ -"

Harry releases a short breath.  "He does?"  He looks at Snape. "You do?"

"I should charge you interest, is what I should do, but the Board of Directors voted against it, and I am not one to challenge authority in this respect.  Nevertheless, I really must insist -"

"My apologizes, madam," Snape says, corner of his mouth twitching slightly, "I will settle my debts immediately.  I must confess it somewhat - slipped my mind.  Never again."

"Oh." Peggotty nods, wrath evaporating in a fine mist.  "Well, then.  The library thanks you for your patronage.  Harry, dear, do take the rest of the afternoon off to consult with the Professor.  I'll just let the banshees know you'll be taking the books."

She floats off contentedly, and Snape fixes Harry with a thunderous glare.  

"You might have warned me."

"How was I to know you were such a delinquent?"

"Shut up."

"Any other library-related crimes I should be told about?  Just so I'm prepared for the future.  Dog-earing pages, or unauthorized highlighting?"

"Potter, I'm warning you -"

Harry laughs, and then realizes he's laughing with Snape, as if the two of them are sharing a joke or having a friendly conversation.  It's unsettling and he drops it quickly.  

They end up (after paying Snape's hefty fines) at the coffee shop next to Will.  It's exclusively magical, and only then so Muggle patrons don't get alarmed by textbooks with moving pictures or fur and fangs.  The charm at the door puts any Muggle person momentarily off carbs and caffeine, and usually results in their immediate departure.

Harry, however, loves it.  He happily breaks a piece off of his second blueberry scone as Snape works his way through the pile of victimized literature, occasionally jotting down an observation in his small, black notebook.  

"Kindly keep your crumbs to yourself," Snape says, not looking up.

"Do my best," Harry says.  "You sure you aren't hungry?  There are fresh blueberries in these."

"I am of the rare mind that greasy fingerprints do _not_ belong in texts more than one thousand years my senior.  Call me old-fashioned if you will."  

Harry almost chuckles, but swallows around it instead.  Snape is not his friend, he's made that much perfectly clear, and just because Snape grudgingly let Harry buy him a cup of tea doesn't mean anything has changed.  

He passes the last of the books to Snape, who examines it with the same care he showed its predecessor.  Harry - despite his best efforts - finds himself entranced by the gentleness of Snape's hands on the fine pages.  He always imagined those hands as vicious - slicing through the belly of a toad, scratching vitriol in the margins of a student's essay - but in this situation Snape is utterly changed.  

Harry thinks of the books taken from Spinner's End, books Snape no doubt touched with these same hands, and feels guilt like bile settle high in his throat.  Christ, all of Snape's bloody books and everything in that shabby house of his - probably Galleons worth of potions equipment - and all for being on their side.  All for working for the Order, and following Dumbledore's orders, and having his neck chewed off by a great bloody snake -

"I heard about your house," he says quickly, before he can talk himself out of it.

"Did you." Snape does not look up.

"I can't believe the Ministry would do such a thing.  It's - so unjust.  And all that time, you were locked up in Azkaban, an innocent -"

The china handle of Snape's mug snaps off cleanly in his hand, and Harry reaches out, startled and unthinking, to take the mug from Snape, or catch the hot tea that threatens to spill on the thousand-year-old book, or - or something, there has to be some reason -

But the mug itself is not cracked, and no tea spills, and Snape's hand is not cut by shards of fine china.  Instead, Harry touches his fingers against Snape's - just for a moment - before he realizes that there is no need for his fingers to be there.  Nothing is broken.

He snatches his hand back, and Snape sets his mug down quickly.  They both stare at the table for a silent moment.  Snape picks up the broken handle, frowning blankly at it as if he isn't sure what it is.

"I think -" Harry say quickly, "I think that was my fault."

Snape glares up at him, and his face looks almost unfamiliar - skin pulled tight across his cheekbones and a wild, hunted look in his dark eyes.

"I shouldn't have brought up - god knows you don't have to talk about your personal life, least of all with -"

"Potter, stop." Snape sighs.  "Merlin's sake.  There is no need for this onslaught of apology.  It does no good for either of us."

"I know, I just -"

"And regardless of your youthful convictions, I am not 'innocent' - not by any stretch of the imagination.  Whatever you think you know about my character, please keep it to yourself.  I am - quite beyond redemption at this point."

Snape drains the last of his tea, avoiding the sharp edges left by the handle, and rises, gathering his things.  Harry wasn't expecting his immediate departure, but Snape silences his protests with a raised hand.

" _Pleasant_ though this little chat has been, I believe I can be of no further use to you.  I will contact you if I draw any conclusions."

Before Harry can even respond, Snape is sweeping out the door (if one can really sweep anywhere in that ridiculous coat).  Harry watches him cross the rainy street, ducking through the crowd.  

He feels strangely - disappointed.  Which is mad.  What did he think was going to happen, he and Snape would become best mates and adopt a cat together?  He catches a flash of Snape's coat traveling rapidly up the next block, and suppresses a wince.  Perhaps a strong start and weak finish is the best that he will ever be able to expect, as far as the two of them are concerned.

He fills his friends in on Halloween at a party that Luna Lovegood throws.  Harry turns down the initial invite and the follow-up, and fully intends on spending Halloween with only a pot of tea for company until Ron and Hermione show up at his door that evening, thrusting a jacket onto his shoulders and a bottle of firewhisky into his hands.

"Nope, don't bother," Ron says as Harry starts to protest, and before he knows it they're in Leeds and Harry's choice in the matter is long bloody gone. 

Luna's somehow gotten her hands on a gorgeous (albeit crumbling and completely filthy) three-story brick house, which she's filled with a bunch of street magicians and artists and other oddly beautiful people.  Everyone seems to be dating or shagging or somehow involved with everyone else.  Harry hasn't quite figured it all out, but he hasn't seen Luna since he left Hogwarts.  Her foggy-eyed smile is familiar and so welcome it makes his throat squeeze tight, speech impossible for a good two minutes.   

Ron and Hermione sit on the threadbare sofa across from the large loveseat, where Harry sits and feels Ginny's absence like a tooth that has been pulled.  Across the room, Luna seems intent on recruiting Neville into the flat's one spare bedroom - and probably into other things as well.  Every available space is crowded with Luna's roommates, but thankfully everyone is either high, pissed or counter-culture enough not to give a shit about the Boy Who Lived.  

"I can't believe you had tea with Snape," Ron laughs, cider practically coming out of his pores.  "Just like two blokes on a date, or summat."

"Ron." Hermione elbows him. 

"Sorry, I'm just saying - it's funny, is all."

"Well, I don't think _he_ found it very funny," Harry tells them. "He practically clawed his way out of the place at the end.  He absolutely can't stand me."

"Yeah, well - who can stand _him_?" Ron asks, and Harry gives him a look that Ron is far too familiar with.  "Okay, fine, sorry, Harry.  Don't mean to insult your pet cause, or anything."

Ron's had a bit to drink, so Harry lets it go with only a slight frown.  Ron doesn't know, does he, he doesn't know anything about Snape.  He wasn't there in the memories, didn't see him crying in Dumbledore's office.  He didn't see Snape as a little boy with nothing, not a single friend except for Harry's fierce, red-haired mother; Ron didn't see Snape with a broken heart.

Or with his blood all over Harry's hands.  

Or with his head, weak and heavy on Harry's shoulder, gasping out a breath that almost was his last.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asks, more perceptive than she has any right to be.

Harry nods, but he isn't.  Not really.   He looks away from his friend's too-keen eyes, and meets the dark brown gaze of some bloke across the room.  He's got coppery-coloured hair, and a silver ring through each of his nostrils, but the piercings somehow only make his face seem prettier, glinting white-hot in the candlelight.  He can't be much older than Harry, and for some reason he smiles when he catches Harry's eye, nodding as if they know each other.

"Who's that?" Hermione asks.

"No idea."

Harry smiles back at the stranger.  There's something warm in the way his mouth curls, and Harry feels the urge to get up and speak to him, figure out if there's something he's missing.

"Think that chap wants your autograph, Harry," Ron says with a smirk.

The man glances down to study his bottle of lager, and laughs at something a friend says, before looking up and smiling at Harry once again.

"Um - no, I rather think he wants Harry's phone number," Hermione says slowly, and Ron almost chokes on his drink.

Harry tears his gaze away from the other man, blood rushing to his face.  He feels his heart pounding like fists against his chest, because no, no - of course not - there's no way someone who looks like _that_ would ever fancy - and Harry's just broken up, he wouldn't possibly - oh right, and he doesn't think about men that way, he hasn't - he hasn't _really_ , he -

"What?  No.  Serious?" Ron looks paler than normal.  "Merlin, Harry - you watch yourself.  It's like wolves round these parts." 

Hermione elbows her boyfriend and shoots him a Very Meaningful Look, and Ron stammers out some sort of half-arsed apology.

"Unless of course, that's summat you'd be into which of course is totally fine with me," he says quickly, "Whatever makes you happy, right, and it's not like you just got out of a long-term thing with my baby sister, _oh wait_ -"

"Ron," Hermione warns.

"Anyway, love is love," Ron finishes weakly.

"Both of you can - calm down." Harry takes a swig of lager, just to give himself a few more seconds of panicked inner monologue.  "Someone just smiled at me, it doesn't mean I'm about to marry him or anything.  And I'm pretty sure he's only being friendly, and - and - and no, I don't - I haven't ever thought about - I mean, just because Ginny finished with me, doesn't mean I'm giving up on women completely."

"See?  What did I tell you?" Ron looks at his girlfriend accusingly.  

"Of course," Hermione's voice is soft, but her eyes are still serious and fixed on Harry's face.  "No one's accusing anyone of anything, besides _me_ accusing Ron of being stuck in the 1950's."

"Hey -"

"Just - don't underestimate your - your appeal, Harry."

" _Hey_ ," Ron says again, but Hermione rushes on.

"I know you've just split with Ginny, and it's been terrible, but you're still -  handsome and smart and sweet.  That fellow is basically taking your clothes off from across the room -"

"Oi!"

"And you can't even see it.  Frankly, I don't care who you sleep with, but I do care that you realize that - there are going to be people who want to sleep with you.  Lots of people.  And not because you're the Boy Who Lived, but because you're - you're a catch."

Harry has no reply besides radiating red with embarrassment and mumbling nonsense into his beer.  Hermione glares at Ron.

"And don't _you_ start -"

"Nah, forget it.  It was rather sexy there, at the end."

Hermione's hard gaze softens, and she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ron’s mouth. 

For the rest of the night, Harry does not look at the man in the across the room, even though the feeling of being watched prickles like a sunburn against his neck.  He drinks more than he should and ends up kipping on Luna's sofa, a situation which never would have happened had he been in his right mind.  He doesn't sleep in strange places, _never_ , because he doesn't know what might happen - he might scream his throat hoarse and wake the neighbours, he might light the curtains on fire during a dream about Vincent Crabbe, he might wake sobbing and soaking wet and in no fit state for human company.  

That night, however, his dreams are gentle - there are long white fingers against his skin and he wakes sighing softly, leaning into a touch that was never there.

He almost jumps a foot when he finds Luna watching him, bare legs tucked up under her overlarge _One Direction_ t-shirt in the armchair across from him.  The dim morning light has her hair shining like silver.  

"You scared me," Harry murmurs, and Luna raises a finger to her lips.

"Shh.  You'll wake Neville."

Harry was certain Neville left with Ron and Hermione, but apparently not.  Luna says nothing, just stares at him until Harry awkwardly fumbles for coherent thoughts.  

"Never would have thought you'd be a fan," he says, gesturing toward her shirt.

Luna smiles her odd, slanted smile.  "One of them is a wizard, but I'm not to tell you which.  Also, I hear you're solving mysteries with Professor Snape."

"Definitely not."

"Oh?  That's too bad.  I thought he could have used a bit of excitement and romance.  Both of you, really."

"Um - it's not -" Harry finds himself making several ridiculous hand gestures, as if he's forgotten how wrists and fingers are supposed to move.  "It's not - romantic.  Or exciting, really, it's just library business -"

"There was always something about his face," Luna continues, seemingly in her own world.  "Like one of the men from those books McGonagall hid in her top desk drawer.  Oh - I expect you never found those.  I shouldn't have said."

Harry is so unbalanced that he almost asks "What books?" before he thinks better of it.  In his silence, Luna regrettably continues.

"I wanted to _lick_ Snape the first time I saw him in the Great Hall.  His neck - or his nose maybe.  And all those black buttons... " Luna's voice is dreamy, and Harry feels his mouth fall open.  "Do you think he's a virgin?  That would be the saddest thing.  No offense, of course.."

Harry doesn't bother to deny it, and he doesn't bother asking her how she knows; there's no point in asking how Luna knows anything if you have less than half an hour to spend on conspiracy theories and phases of the moon.  As it is, Harry's too distracted by the thought of Snape as someone with a body - someone with a virginity to be lost, a face to be licked, a - what was Luna even saying?  

"Luna." Harry interrupts, because if he doesn't say something he might never speak again.

"Oh no!" Luna looks completely wretched.  "I've made you uncomfortable."

"No, you've -" Harry can't even find the energy to carry out the lie.  "I'm just -"

"I have.  You've gone all pinky-red about the ears - it's quite attractive, really.  Also, I was sad to hear about Ginny."  Somehow that segue is less shocking to Harry, less sharp, than the thought of Snape's untouched skin, or the sad and obvious fact of Harry's virginity.  

"Yeah, me too," Harry says after a moment.

"But you'll be okay."

"I - I think so.  I mean, I'll have to -"

"No, it wasn't a question.  You'll be okay." 

Luna's eyes are so clear and full of certainty that Harry feels himself compelled to nod.  As if it's that simple.  And in that brief moment of certainty, he thinks that Ginny - maybe Ginny was right.  Maybe she knew him too well, and did the right thing because she knew he never would.  Christ, what a thing to think.  It sits high in his throat, equal parts relief and betrayal.

"Let me know how it all turns out with you and Snape," Luna says, veering off-subject once again.  "Even if it isn't romantic or exciting." 

She winks at that last part, pulling her silvery hair out of her face, and tying it into some haphazard knot on the top of her head.  In that moment it is absolutely impossible to guess her age - she could be ten years old, or fifty - and Harry has a wild, mad notion that of all his friends, Luna is the only one he couldn't surprise. 

"I'm for coffee." Luna says, rising.  "Go back to sleep.  It's barely gone three."

Barely gone three?  Jesus.  Harry rolls onto his back and stares at the spotted ceiling above him.  If he squints, the odd mildew stain looks like an angry face, and _fantastic_ he's back to thinking about Snape again - as if Luna planted the seed and just left it to grow wild.  Snape, whose hand Harry touched that day in the coffee shop, just a short spark of contact for no reason at all, but still Harry can feel the trace of heat against his fingertips.  It's guilt, is what it is, and Harry knows it.  He feels guilty for not coming to Snape's rescue when he needed it most, guilty for misjudging him all those years and then leaving him alone to nearly die in dirt and darkness.  There's gratitude somewhere in there as well, and anger and - and -

That's all there is, surely.   

_"I am quite beyond redemption at this point."_   Snape's voice echoes in Harry's skull, as if the man was speaking to him right now.  As if Snape was sitting next to him, and not miles away, doubtlessly sound asleep without a thought for Harry in his mind.  

"You're not," Harry says, before he realizes he's speaking out loud.  He closes his mouth and shuts his eyes, and if he hears Neville's soft murmur of "Come back to bed, sweetpea," from the kitchen, well - that much can be repressed.    

Days later, Harry is shelving books on his knees in the mystery section when he hears someone softly clear their throat.  Harry turns around and is momentarily dumbstruck because - because he hadn't been prepared for - he wasn't expecting - there's no reason that -

Snape is standing behind him with two paper cups of coffee in his hands.  Harry tries to stand up so quickly he hits his head on one of the shelves, and Snape gives a dry snort of amusement.

"Ow."  Harry stands, rubbing his head.  "Think that's funny, do you?"

"That would be admitting to a sense of humour, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, of course.  The end of the world as we know it.  Can't have that."

"Quite."  Snape hands him one of the coffees, eyes cast downwards.  "I didn't know how you took it, so I added an obscene amount of cream and sugar.  Given the state of you, I assume that some caffeine will not go amiss."

Harry knows he still has circles under his eyes, knows that weeks of nightmares are taking a physical toll.  He'd thought he'd got it under control for the most part - hadn't ripped the door off his bedroom for months.  If Snape is remarking on it, however, Harry must not be doing as well as he thought.

"I'm sure you have an overactive social life, but certainly your admirers will permit you the occasional hour's sleep," Snape continues when it becomes clear Harry isn't going to reply.  "If only to keep up appearances."

"Um.  No, it's not like that."  Harry was not expecting to have this conversation with Snape of all people.  "I don't - I have dreams.  Bad dreams."

There is a brief moment of silence, during which time Harry can hear nothing over the sudden pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and in his throat.  What is he doing? Why is he telling Snape any of this?

"I have come to discuss your vandalism problem."  Snape ploughs ahead, thankfully ignoring Harry's over-sharing. "Since the weather is rather favourable, at least for the moment, I thought perhaps we might - take a walk."

Harry looks from the coffee cup in his hand to the sunlight streaming in Will's windows, and thinks he just hit his head harder than he thought.  Because - because Snape is buying him coffee and asking him to go for a walk; Harry would sooner expect Voldemort to take him to lunch.

"Okay," Harry says slowly.

Of course, Peggotty is only too pleased to have progress on the case, and Harry is told to take as much time as he needs.  He meets Snape on the pavement outside Will, and is shocked to see the man wearing sun specs.  It is so bizarrely human - just like that ridiculous grey coat - that Harry is briefly speechless.  When the hell did Snape become a real person?

"What?" Snape sneers, and Harry shrugs and looks away, trying to seem casual while behaving as awkwardly as possible.  He takes a sip of his coffee, which is ridiculously delicious, and follows Snape down the street.

The two of them end up walking by the Thames, fighting the crush of tourists with cameras and families with prams, bundled up against the cold but still taking advantage of the sunshine while it lasts.  Snape seems rather reluctant to say anything, so Harry stays quiet (it's either that or babble incessantly, and he's barely resisting the latter).  He looks out over the water, brown and blue and gold when the sunlight hits it, follows the tourist boats' slow progress through the wide river.

"I cannot find records of the contents of your missing pages," Snape says eventually, and Harry's heart only sinks fractionally.  If anyone could do it, it would be Snape, but at least the fellow tried.

"Oh.  All right."

"But I have managed to ascertain the location of other copies of the very same texts."

"There are other copies?" Harry stops walking to stare at Snape, causing the Muggle couple following to nearly crash into them.

"My apologies," Snape tells them, as Harry ducks out of their way, going to lean on the railing.  "The books are rare, that much cannot be overstated.  They will not be easy to access.  I have, however, spoken to a contact in Greece, where there is a collection containing both _Venenum Historia_ and _Viridi Magicae_."

Something about Snape speaking Latin makes Harry's stomach hurt - which is bizarre.  He's heard the other man cast spells, and it shouldn't sound that much different, but for some reason it does.  Harry's so distracted by Snape's clipped accent that he briefly forgets the meaning behind the words.

"That's brilliant," he says in a rush, trying to cover his momentary lapse.  "I can go and copy down the missing pages."

"Not just anyone can handle these books.  The collection in question is closed to the public, and access is given strictly to dignitaries and scholars.  Perhaps the occasional charitable donor."

"Ah." Harry resists the urge to melt under Snape's withering stare.  "I guess I'm out then.  At least, that's what your eyebrows seem to be implying."

"You know nothing about my eyebrows," Snape sniffs, but he is looking at Harry in a strange and familiar way, eyes barely visible through his glasses.  Harry feels something shiver in the vicinity of his ribs, a flower curling slowly toward a beam of sunlight.

"Potter?  Are you quite well?" 

Harry realizes that he's staring at Snape in silence, and he shakes his head clear, trying to focus.

"Sudden onset heatstroke?"

"Cheers, no.  So the - " Harry trails off again.  Snape's eyebrows are rather fascinating, when one thinks about it.  Just peeking over the top of his sunspecs, they are bushier than Harry remembers, and finely arched, perpetually ironic.

"The books," Snape finishes for him. 

"Right.  I can't look at them, is what you're saying.  Even with all my special librarian access codes."

"Your badges and medals and everything," Snape says.  Harry laughs, and Snape looks very pointedly away, following the rough paths of the river.

It suddenly occurs to Harry that maybe the reason for Snape's admittedly strange behaviour is that he wants to go to the library himself, and is trying to suss out the library's willingness to send him.  Well, it makes sense - Harry has no idea what Snape has been doing with himself since the war, and maybe he'd need money for the trip.  Christ, maybe he wants to be paid for the work he's done so far.  Harry will have to clear some things with Peggotty, but he's sure she'd be more than willing, particularly since Snape is no longer beholden to the library's financial department.  

No wonder Snape's seemed a bit out of sorts.  Harry can imagine that he'd rather have his throat ripped out again than ask anyone for money.

"Do - you - want to go then?" Harry asks, and Snape looks at him sharply.  "I expect you could get in easily enough."

Snape nods, wets his lips.  "As I am acquainted with the curator, I think my presence would - expedite arrangements.  However, given the position I am in -" 

"Of course," Harry says quickly,  "The expenses won't be a problem, I'll talk to Ms. Peggotty and she'll have to talk to the board, but -"

"What are you -" Snape cuts him off, "For God's sake, stop before you embarrass yourself.  I am not asking you for money."

"Oh."  Harry wills his blush to fade.  "Then what -"

"Flooing internationally is more trouble than it is worth, believe me.  And, as I have remarked to you in the not so distant past - I cannot Apparate, though you've doubtlessly -"

"I _did_ start a petition, I don't know if you heard.  It's been sent off already, or I'd let you take a look at it."

"I wonder if you might give me leave to finish one bloody sentence," Snape sniffs, but his tone is not as hostile as it could be.  "I am trying to tell you that I would require - accompaniment.  At least for the journey."  Snape looks away again, and Harry watches him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing awkwardly in his long throat, wrapped in scar tissue like a present wrapped in ribbon.  

Accompaniment should be simple enough to arrange, but it doesn't explain why Snape is so nervous.  Unless he - unless -

"Are you asking me to go with you?" Harry says quietly, drowned out by the momentary roar of a passing trolley.  

"What?"

"Are you asking me to go with you?" Harry says again, louder.  

"I'm not _asking_ you anything, I am simply drawing your addled mind toward the most convenient option.  Convenient for the library, if not for my own personal sanity."

Harry ignores the attempted insults.  From a man who just invited him to Greece, they barely make a dent.  

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"Rhodes."

An image swims in Harry's mind, stark shades of bright colour layered against each other, and ruins with more history than he could possibly imagine.   "Brilliant.  I've never been to Greece.  Never gone anywhere outside of the UK, really.  Have you been before?  Is it beautiful?  It looks beautiful in all the photos I've seen, all white buildings and blue sea - "

"Desist in your drooling, Potter, or I'll take a bloody boat.  _Alone_ ," Snape adds, at Harry's keen look.

"When would you want to go?"

"Will a week be a sufficient time to prepare?" Snape asks, "We can Apparate straight to the island and return the same day.  But perhaps you need to secure the blessing of your late employer?"

"She'll just be thrilled that someone's on the case.  I think she's a bit of a mystery buff, actually.  Found a whole stack of Conan Doyle hidden in her office."

"Charming," Snape responds dryly.  "I will Owl you the details then."

"All right.  Thanks for the coffee."

"It managed to keep you quiet for fifteen minutes.  That is thanks enough."

Snape turns on his heel without so much as a nod of farewell.  He leaves Harry standing alone by the water, smiling.  He shakes his head, knowing that he looks like some kind of grinning idiot - speaking to no one, smiling at nothing.  He tells himself that it's mostly about the books, and just maybe only a tiny little bit about having an interaction with Snape that didn't end with them both spitting curses at the other.   He bites down on his lip, the inside of his cheek, but all he can think about is white sand and blue sky and Snape's eyes looking out over the water, looking purposefully away from Harry ("I would require accompaniment.  At least for the journey.")  It should feel like some sort of trap, because Snape would never want to spend time with Harry if he could help it.    I should feel like the beginning of a cruel joke or hostile turnabout, but - but Snape bought him coffee and asked him to Greece.  Harry shakes his head, smile becoming a bit mad and ragged at the edges.    

He makes his way back to the library, goes on about his work, but for some reason his smile doesn’t -

***

\- see the new addition to the Hogwart's faculty for over three weeks.  Even though though Potter is in residence, even though Evelyn does not fail to mention Potter in their every blessed encounter.  Severus does not see him.  

Frankly, it seems a bit - odd.

It should be no surprise that Potter is steering clear of Severus' portrait, and it is more than Severus dared to hope for.  The greater surprise is that he notices Potter's absence at all, and really, that is all down to Evelyn; the fool child feels the need to narrate Potter's various comings and goings as if he's reporting for _Witch Weekly._ Apparently Potter has been installed in the Gryffindor wing of the castle.  Apparently he is simply observing Professor Zhang's teaching of the class until January, when Zhang will be going on an extended leave of absence (to work on his novel, not that anyone is supposed to know as much).  Apparently Potter is very popular with the students (shocking) but has rejected any requests to supervise Quidditch matches or take part in the newly formed staff league.  Apparently Potter is quite busy, up at all hours in his small office reading DADA textbooks and going over lesson plans.

The veracity of these accounts can be questioned.  Evelyn is hardly a reliable witness, and most of what the boy claims to be fact has been derived from eavesdropping and hearsay.  Severus is heartened that Potter hasn't attempted some sort of tearful reunion, but doubts his luck will hold out much longer.  Still, the boy's absence makes Potter that much easier to ignore, to forget about.  And Severus does forget about him.  He does.

He visits the Irish landscape with Evelyn three times in as many weeks, gathers great armfuls of heather at Fortunata’s insistence, and Harry Potter does not cross his path.  Granted the Irish landscape (“Rolling Hills” is the actual name) is tucked away by the Ravenclaw Common Room, which Potter might have little reason to visit, but Severus happens to be in "Hogwarts by Sunrise" across from the Great Hall just as dinner is letting out, and Potter eludes him there as well.  Severus isn’t searching for Potter, or any such thing.  It’s mere chance that he is in those canvases at all, but the sheer absence of Potter is suspicious in itself. 

Severus is never not suspicious.  Particularly when it comes to Harry Potter.

The DADA classroom has been rebuilt on the second floor, right across from several small pastoral scenes, and Severus just happens to find himself wandering through the windswept moors over the course of the next few weeks.  He is not waiting for classes to let out, but when they do let out and he is remarkably present, he sees no trace of Potter.  He wonders if Potter is keeping late hours in the classroom – or perhaps if rumours of his new position have been greatly exaggerated.  Severus wouldn’t put it past Evelyn to lose all sense, but the other portraits he has spoken with (not that he has asked about Potter, but the subject has arisen naturally) have also remarked on Potter’s presence.  So the boy is either avoiding him or – not that Severus cares of course -

When he finally does manage to stumble across the Chosen One, nearly one month later, it is completely by chance.  Utterly.

There are nights when Severus does not sleep.  Not many, which is disturbing.  It is far too easy to drift into the thickly brush-stroked sleep of a portrait; Severus feels the urge pulling on his bones throughout the day, and when night falls, he barely has a chance to sit down before he's sinking into darkness.   He has begun to guard against these lethargic tendencies.  As a living, breathing human (one must not forget such things), Severus was a light sleeper: a wanderer of corridors, a hoarder of lost hours.  Aside from Filch, Severus was one of the only staff members who didn't grumble over night patrol, because most nights Severus would be walking those hallways regardless.  He liked Hogwarts at night; one could almost pretend there were no students in it.  It was much the same at Spinner's End - at night the house was quiet, and relatively harmless.  You could forget where you were, imagine a wholly different kind of place - _a home_ , softened by starlight and shadow.

He has begun to force himself back toward these old habits, much as his body protests.  Severus wanders village scenes and empty cafés and lush gardens by moonlight.  He sits for hours in dark forests and listens for any noise, any sign of life besides the creaking pines and rush of stale wind.   He observes, unseen, the nightly goings on of Hogwarts, and for this reason, he should have noticed Potter much sooner than he does.  

The first time Severus sees him, pajama-clad and shockingly pale in the darkness of the third floor hallway, Severus nearly throws himself to the ground in an attempt to remain unseen.  He does not know why this is his first reaction, only that the crush of panic in his chest moves his limbs before he consciously chooses to do so, and he ends up on the forest floor, pine needles digging into the palms of his hands.  He listens for the slow retreat of Potter's footsteps, but that is - regrettably - not all that he hears.

Weeping.  Lily's son is weeping.

Severus scrambles to his feet, but by then Potter has already moved on, weaving unsteadily down the hallway.  Severus knows this hallway, knows each painting well, and he should feel ridiculous as he moves from one gold frame to the other - avoiding slumbering aristocrats, dancers, impromptu tea parties in his haste to catch the Boy Who Lived - but he does not.  Instead, he follows Harry Potter silently, like a dog tracking a scent, down the staircase and through corridors, waiting until the boy has found his way back to his rooms in one piece.  He should tell someone, Severus realizes, watching the door shut firmly behind Potter's narrow form.  It isn’t safe to wander in darkness through a school such as this.  If Potter were to run into a wall, or bash his head on a floating candelabra, or fall down the stairs and break his precious neck (the War laps that image up as if it were blood and cream, whines for more, _more -)_

Severus feels his breathing accelerating, and he swallows until he sees stars in his vision.  He didn't give his life for the bloody Order to Potter could spend the night weeping his way toward some needless, pointless injury.  Severus has to tell someone.

He does not.  Instead, he spends his nights on some wild and half-mad hunt, stalking the boy from the Astronomy Tower to the Great Hall and back again.  Sometimes he doesn't find Potter, and those nights are infinitely preferable to the ones that he does.  When he cannot find Potter, Severus can assume that the boy is sleeping in a bed, and not weaving hazardously through a crumbling ruin of a boarding school.  It is far preferable to spending the wee hours with his heart in his throat, watching the solitary figure move like shadow and lamplight, meandering across stone floors without destination or purpose.  Sometimes Potter has the wherewithal to throw on a robe before leaving his chambers; sometimes he is clothed in nothing other than thin flannel pajamas.  Sometimes he is crying.  Sometimes he is talking quietly to himself, eyes slowly drifting shut with each step he takes.

Bloody Evelyn tags along once, and only once, before Severus puts a stop to it.  He really indulges the boy shamefully, and at any rate, he has to leave him snoring in some woodcutter's shack shortly after midnight.  The child is not equipped for late nights (Severus bites back a strange and sudden twist of envy, having never been that young or that innocent.)

Things might have continued in this way indefinitely had not Alcott Prawn surprised no one by being a perfect imbecile.

It is the beginning of November, the chill of winter creeping into even Severus’ small, rectangular world.  He is brewing agin, and above the hiss of sizzling clover, he hears the sound of slow footsteps.   Harry Potter swims into his vision, fine-boned and white as milk.

“Professor,” Potter says with a nod of his head.

Severus is no longer a professor, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he does not correct Potter.  This time. 

“Mr. Potter,” Severus replies.  A dozen words flutter against his tongue, a dozen questions about Potter's nighttime activities, the dark circles beneath his eyes, his dreams.  Severus rejects all of these, settling on the most inane. "How are you finding the educational profession?" 

Potter shrugs, an elegant one-shouldered gesture.  

"Still getting used to it, I suppose," Potter says, "I'm just supervising classes right now.  Won't start teaching properly until next term."

"And your friends," Severus continues, though he doesn't give any sort of damn, "What do they think of your change in career?"

Something darkly familiar flashes in Potter's gaze, and Severus thinks that Harry's friends must not be as supportive as the Chosen One would prefer.

"You really want to discuss my friends, Professor?" Potter asks. "I'm sure I could tell you all about their feelings and relationships and lives, if that's what you'd like.  Bill Weasley and his wife Fleur are going to have a baby, for example and -"

"Your point is taken," Severus mutters, and the corner of Potter's mouth curls shyly.

"What have you been up to, then?  I see you can brew potions.  Is that what you do all day?"

"In the five minutes that I'm not sitting motionless in that chair, bestowing wisdom and counsel on numerous troubled children."  

Potter bites down on his lower lip to stop from smiling, and Severus watches the slow catch and drag of tooth on skin before he realizes what he is doing.

"Fine.  We won't talk about my friends, and we won't talk about your free time.  I'm not here for myself, as you've made it clear that you didn't - and I wanted to respect - anyway, I've been sent."

Of course he isn't here on his own volition.  And why would he be?  Severus warned him away, after all; he is grateful that for once the boy is following his instructions.  He is similarly grateful that Potter is not aware that he is much more present in Severus' life than he realizes.

"Sent by whom exactly?" If this is Albus' doing -

"Alcott.  The new Potions Master - well, you probably know him."

Severus sighs, feels the sigh run from the toes of his polished boots to the jagged tips of his fingernails.

"A fan of his, I take it?"

"I taught young Mr. Prawn over a decade ago, and he has not improved with age.  And he sends you to me, like an owl with a scroll, why exactly?" 

"Explosions, I think, were the impetus."

Severus snorts, unsurprised.  "You don't say."

"Yeah - apparently on Tuesday a bunch of cauldrons caught fire.  He didn't explain the situation that clearly, and it was hard to understand with all the trembling."

"You don't say," Severus says again, and Potter raises an eyebrow.

"Is there something you aren't telling me?"

"Always," Severus says, and Potter laughs, small and bitten off, but he laughs and Severus feel wandless, wordless magic spark between his fingers (the first time he lit a candle, opened a door, vanished from an empty room.)

Something is going wrong inside him, that's the only explanation for it.  In the presence of Harry Potter, Severus inexplicably feels control leaching from the hard knot of his heart.  He is a clock gone slow, a lock worn soft through ages of use.  

Dead.  He is dead.  It is important to remember this.

"Did Prawn mention anything about the contents of his store room?" Severus asks, more to distract himself than because he holds out any hope in Prawn's slight degree of competency.

"Um, no."

"Of course not."  Severus feels the urge to bite something.  "He asks me for help - no, he doesn't even ask me, he sends a boy in his place, meanwhile he hasn't even the good grace to take stock of the bloody potions store -"

"The - wait, a boy?  Cheers -"

"- endangering the children in his care and expecting me to come to his imbecilic rescue -"

"I can look at them for you."

Severus is still mid-rant, and he doesn't completely process Potter's words until the boy falls silent. 

"What did you say?"

"I said I could look at the potions storeroom for you.  If there was something you needed to - it wouldn't be any trouble.  As long as Alcott was all right with -"

"Alcott Prawn will be all right with whatever I tell him is all right."

Potter laughs softly, under his breath.

"You're rather funny when you're angry, did you know that?  Or maybe it's just funny when you're not angry at _me_.  But if I can be of help -"

"While I appreciate your offer, Mr. Potter, I rather doubt you would recognize the difference between fresh Alihotsy and aged Alihotsy and Alihotsy that has long gone black and rotten, and Alihotsy that is impure, and Alihotsy that has been diluted with dried sage to maximize the profits of certain potions dealers that shall remain nameless, _Herbert Carmichael_."

Potter stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly open (something is going wrong inside of Severus, that's the only possible explanation).

"You're - probably right.  I mean, my potions marks weren't exactly stellar, were they."

"That is the understatement of a lifetime."

"Lovely," Harry says with a sniff.  It bothers Severus how unruffled Harry seems - as if Severus' vitriol is just an insect batting up against a window-screen.  Where is the boy that could be reduced to smoldering ashes with one curl of Severus' lip?  "Well, I've done my bit.  The rest is up to Alcott.  But I'm more than willing to help out if you need it."

"I no longer teach in this school, in case you have forgotten.  Surely the tedious task of basic inventory should not fall on my painted shoulders."

"You're quite -" Harry stops, and shakes his head.  "I don't know.  Never mind.  Sorry to have bothered you."

You didn't, Severus does not say, _you didn't_.  Neither does he ask why Harry is not sleeping, whether he has gone as mad as Draco suggested, whether the War wakes him up with soft, toothy bites the way it does Severus.  Severus chokes down any longing for small talk, any ill-advised desire to prolong this inane conversation. 

"Let me know if you change your mind.  About the whole storroom thing.  You could lurk about in a nearby painting and I could bring you - well, it doesn't matter.  Anyway."

Severus watches Potter idly play with a button on his cuff.  He remembers that gesture from their last meeting - that could be fifty years ago or could be yesterday.  Time must pass differently for portraits, must be harder to track or process.  Or maybe his interactions with Harry Potter are just more - more -

He cannot possibly finish that sentence.  That thought.

"Goodbye, Mr. Potter."

"Bye," Harry says softly, and Severus turns on his heel, walks back into his potions class without even a nod of farewell.   He does not watch Potter leave, and he does not think about why.  He does not wonder when he will see Potter again, or if the boy will come back.

As it is, the boy does.  

Not that night or the next, but it can't have been a week before Severus is woken by the sound of heavy breathing.  His first thought is of panic, but that is usually his first thought upon waking, portrait or no.  He squints in the darkness but can see nothing in the black of his rooms or the surrounding hallways.  He had not meant to sleep that evening.  He had not meant to sleep at all.  

"Evelyn?" he says softly, for the boy had come to him once in the night, weeping with nightmares of tall and thorny walls.  There is no answering high-pitched wail, so it cannot be Evelyn.  Instead, Severus hears a sharp intake of breath, and then silence, a silence that seems impossibly louder than the sounds that came before.

"Who the hell is -"

"Lumos," he hears someone say, and the shining face of Harry Potter is suddenly and sharply illuminated.  Severus blinks against the brightness, and sees Potter's profile etched in silver behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry, I'm -" Potter is wiping a palm across his eyes.  "I didn't mean to wake you."

He is wearing that familiar burgundy bathrobe over pajamas of some kind, pale blue stripes visible at his wrists and ankles.  His feet are bare and Severus will not look at them. 

"That - that -” No, this is unacceptable, form some words _you stupid bloody_ \- “That somehow fails to ring true, given your presence at my portrait in the dead of night."

Potter presses his lips into a thin, sharp line and gives a thin, sharp nod.  

"Right.  Right.  I'll just - I'm sorry."

He takes a step back and Severus says the word before he finds the will to stop himself.

" _Don't_."

Potter freezes, eyes bloodshot with tears but wide with surprise.  Severus struggles to find a reason for his sudden lapse of sanity.

"I cannot have you - let loose upon the school in this condition.  Merlin knows what idiocy you might resort to."

Potter's smile is more of a wince, really, but Severus will take it. Potter does not leave, shuffling reluctantly closer. 

"I had a dream," Harry says.  "I don't want to tell you about it."

Severus understands that feeling more than he'd like.  

“Do you have such dreams often?"

"Often.  Yeah.  Pretty much constantly, actually.  Since - since everything."  Potter frowns, and in the dim light from his wand, the circles under the boy's eyes are thrown into even sharper relief.  "Anyway, I just - sometimes I wander the halls, I guess.   At night, when I’m trying to think of something else."

"I am no stranger to such dreams," Severus says, and regrets it almost instantly.  Potter’s mouth softens, eyes becoming a bit less frantic, and Severus has to weigh his admission as having been worth it.

"Have they gone away?  The dreams? Now that - _now_."

"Now that I'm deceased, you mean?"

Potter winces as if Severus had struck him.  Severus finds himself more bothered by this then he should be.  Why in Merlin's name would he care if Potter regrets his death?  Severus is the one that had to sodding _live_ it (pun certainly not intended) and there really is no substitute for firsthand experience when it comes to brutal acts of grievous injury.  

"I no longer have nightmares, if that is what you are asking.  Would you consider that a reasonable trade?"

Harry pulls his robe more tightly around himself.  

"No," he says quietly, the word papery as moth wings in the stillness of the hallway.

Snape has the half-mad urge to reach out, put his fingers on the crease between Potter’s eyebrows and push until it’s smooth.   

"I lied," Potter says quickly, while Severus is still contemplating this senseless gesture.  "I wasn't wandering the halls.  I was coming to see you.”

“You -”

Severus is both shocked and unsettled by the confession - both by the words themselves and the fact that Harry Potter suddenly finds himself unable to lie to his most despised teacher.  

"But - why?" His voice cracks on the last word, but Potter has the good grace to ignore it.

"I -" Potter sighs - a heavy, shuddering thing.  "Jesus.  I've come here before.  At night."

"You - you what?"

"You just never woke up," Potter continues, darting delicately around Severus' outrage.  "I don’t know why, but sometimes I - feel better down here.”

“Potter, you are speaking nonsensically.”  The boy cannot be telling the truth, because Severus would know, surely he would know.  He can’t have slept, unknowing, while Potter bloody wept in front of his portrait.  Severus is the one who is stalking Potter through the hallways, and not the other way around (and stalking is not the appropriate word, of course, Severus is simply ensuring the boy doesn’t bash his fool head in.)  “I fail to see how -”

"I didn’t write my N.E.W.T.s, you know.  I couldn’t.  I left because - Hogwarts wasn’t - it wasn’t safe anymore.  That probably sounds barmy to you, because of course it was safer than before, but for me it was hard to - to separate things.  To go to classes, and eat meals, and sleep without dreaming about everything that happened here, everyone that -" Potter scrubs at his eyes again.  "When I left the first time, I thought - no, I'm never coming back.  But then - I spoke to you after Aberforth's funeral and it seemed like - even though you clearly didn't want me within two miles of you -"

"Clearly." Severus' voice is rougher than he expected.

"It seemed like maybe I was running away.  And I didn't want to do that.  And you - you made it easier to  -"

"To what?"

Potter shrugs, ridiculous and vulnerable and yet somehow endearing in his fuzzy bathrobe.  

"To stay."

Severus finds himself drawing a slow breath in through his teeth, like a hiss or a sound of pain.  He did not ask for this.  He shouldn't be expected to bear this sort of responsibility, this sort of obligation.  He does not want any hold on Potter's life choices, because how could that end in anything other than grave-deep regret?

"That's why I came down here," Potter continues, "I didn't mean to wake you.  Seeing you, sometimes helps me get back to sleep.”

“That fascinating am I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I wish you would explain yourself then.  From what brief points of lucidity I can string together, it sounds like you have been coming to the dungeons to watch me sleeping.”

“It is too late at night for you to use words like lucidity.”

“Yes, Merlin forbid you learn anything.”

“It’s because you’re still here,” Potter says in a rush.  “Even after what happened - you’re still here.  And you remind me how much people sacrificed -”

“Potter -”

“And how much work there still is to do.  For me.  For - for everyone.”

Throughout this fumbling speech, Potter has not been looking at Severus, keeping his shadowed eyes fixed on the floor.  Severus can see a prickle of colour on the boy’s cheekbones, standing out against his usual pallour.  It occurs to him that he notices a good deal too much about Harry Potter’s skin.

“And the school feels safer somehow.  Like it used to.”

Severus snorts.  “Yes, when it was riddled with Basilisks and Dementors and great three-headed mutts.”

“Utterly idyllic.”

Severus feels the corner of his mouth twitch.  He wonders how many times Potter has come to see him, and how long the boy stayed, and what he saw.  No one (save his mother) has ever watched Severus sleep, and it makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.  This makes him notice that he has hairs on his arms which are capable of standing on end, a notable discovery in and of itself.  

“I’m sorry,” Potter says to fill the silence, and Severus is sick of apologies.  They do no good.  They bring no one back from the dead, they mend no broken hearts, they heal no scars.  “You’re probably exhausted, and here I am, just babbling on at you.”

“Are you feeling sufficiently - comforted-” Severus sneers, “by my warmth and generosity of spirit?”

Potter laughs, and again it has that strange effect on Severus, somethign he is certain he did not experience when he was alive.  He heard Potter laugh dozens of times in the past, and it never stilled the air that way it seems to now.

“You’ve healed me.”

“I am beyond relief.”

Potter nods, rolls his shoulders, and Severus realizes he is about to leave.  This is a good thing, this is what Severus wants, and yet he feels the similar desire to reach out, to put a firm hand on a bony shoulder.  Which he cannot do, of course, can no more touch Harry Potter than he can sprout wings from his shoulder blades and leap from the astronomy tower.

And why in Merlin’s name would he want to?

“Should you ever return at a similarly ungodly hour, please make an equal amount of ear-splitting noise. I would rather not be the unknown object of your surveillance.”

Potter is looking strangely at him, a mix of confusion and - something else. 

“Is that - are you saying that I can come back?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.  My generosity of spirit tends to wear thin.”

“Thank you,” Potter says, too earnestly. “Thank you.” Severus has to look away.  “I think I’ll try this sleeping thing again.”

“You needn’t look to me for permission.  I am not the one with classes to supervise tomorrow.”

“Fair point.”  Potter ducks his head in farewell, turning to go.  Severus watches him this time, watches his slow steps, the faint and exhausted hunch of his shoulders.

“Potter,” he calls out at the last moment, apparently beyond shame.

The boy turns and again Severus has to look away, droppiong his gaze toward his own hands, long white fingers with bitten nails, potions stains and scars and a pale criss-crossing of blue veins.  In the moment, they look like someone else’s hands; Severus is certain they belong to a ninety-year-old man he’s never met.

“Idyllic.  Given the lateness of the hour, it is an ambitious choice.”

There is a beat of silence, broken only by the thump of Severus’ heart in his chest.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says with a shake of his head, but he is smiling as he walks away, smiling -

_Potter_ is smiling.  Not Harry.  

Severus sits back down in his armchair.  He feels wakeful, restless.  It is not yet dawn, but he cannot close his eyes.

He stays awake that night, and for the next few nights to come.  He does not see Potter wandering the hallways, and that is a good thing - _it is_.  Potter is sleeping, and Severus is glad of it.  It seems odd, however, now that Severus knows the reason for Potter’s wakefulness.  The halls seem so much quieter without the sound of shuffling feet, and Potter’s gradually calming breaths.  

It is about a week later when it all goes to hell.  

Potter makes a re-appearance some time after midnight, and Severus feels a great, sick lurch of unexpected relief.  Relief regarding what exactly, he cannot say.  There is no part of him that should be gratified by Potter’s nightmares.  

He follows the boy on what has become one of his usual paths.  Up to the Astronomy Tower, then to the Owlery, down past the library and across the second floor.  Severus has spent years learning to step lightly, and he finds that he can follow Potter from only a small distance without being noticed, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye as if they were walking together side by side.  Of course, Severus is in moonlit apple orchard and Potter is in a lamplit hallway, idly tucking his dark hair back behind his ear.  It’s getting long, Severus realizes, almost hanging in the boy’s eyes, curling like ink across his forehead.

That is when Severus steps on a branch.  There is a resounding ‘crack’ from his painting, and Potter freezes.  He looks up with wide eyes and sees Severus, Severus who has somehow forgotten how to move, Severus _staring at him -_  

“Professor?” Potter begins, confused, when there is the sound of shattering glass from down the hall.  Both men look toward it, and Potter has his wand out and is running before Severus finds the wits God gave him and jerks into motion.  He follows Potter, but the boy is fast, and Severus is delayed by each painting he has to shift between.  He pursues the sharp echo of Potter’s footsteps, pulse leaping at the boy’s sudden shout.  It as if some part of Severus has been conditioned to react to Potter in danger, to constantly assume the worst and trail after him - teeth clenched, magic crackling brokenly at his fingertips. 

When he finally catches up with the boy, they are in front of the potions storeroom.  The door is open, glass scattered like crystal in the light of Potter’s wand.

“Someone was here,” Potter says without even turning to ensure that Severus is behind him.  As if Severus is that predictable, as if his following Potter is an unquestionable outcome. “I chased them down that hall, but - I don’t know where they went.  It’s a dead end, just a window and a balcony.  You don’t think - think they -”

Severus is no stranger to the sounds of creeping panic in Potter’s voice.

“I doubt whoever it was leapt from a balcony, Potter.  At any rate, it was most likely a student.  I am certain you recall that dead ends at Hogwarts mean little to those of a more delinquent nature.”

“I was hoping you’d go with ‘enterprising’, but perhaps that was too much to ask.” Potter kneels by the broken glass, where a sparkling grey powder has spread across the floor.

“What is it?” he asks Severus.

Severus is in a room full of colourful silks and decorative pillows, standing delicately next to a snoring witch he does not recognize.  It is not often (lately) that the limits of his existence hit him like an Unforgiveable, but this is one of those times.  He feels like he is watching life unfold from behind glass, pressing his hands and face against the pane until the marks obscure his vision.

“What does it smell like?” Severus asks and Harry touches the powder, lifts his hand and inhales slightly.

“Like - like nothing.  I’m sorry, I’m rubbish at this.”

“Taste it.”

Harry catches Severus’ eye with a strange, shocked expression - before he slowly nods.  

“And if it’s deadly nightshade?”

“It’s not.  Powdered nightshade is nowhere near that colour.  A much darker grey.”

“Christ.” Potter sighs, and Severus watches him lift his index finger to his lips, sees the shocking pink of the boy’s tongue flash between his teeth, feels suddenly blind and dumb and weightless (as if he has just been hit by green light and died with trembling hands against his throat).

“A bit like - lemon actually.”

“Bicorn horn,” Severus says quickly, useful at sodding last.

“Bicorn horn?  That’s - do you think someone’s brewing Polyjuice?”

This brings up a whole host of ugly memories, and Severus is about to make another snide remark about Potter’s past - when he sees something toward the end of the hallway.  It looks very much like a scrap of parchment.

“What is that?” he says softly, and Potter goes to retrieve it.

“It’s a spell, I think,” Potter says after a moment of hunched concentration, bringing it back for Severus to examine.  “I can’t read it.”

Severus blinks in the dim light, trying to make out the words that Potter holds toward him. 

“Lift that light a bit higher.” Severus takes in the torn edges of the parchment, the spidery Latin text in ink as dark as blood.  “It’s - no.”

“Professor?”

“No,” Severus says again.

His mind tumbles like a river over stones.  It cannot possibly be what he thinks it is.  It cannot be, but he’d know that writing anywhere, could do a passable forgery when he was in his twenties and gave less of a damn.

“I think that this is -” Severus can barely form the words; it feels akin to blasphemy. “ _Viridi Magicae.”_

He lets the appropriate amount of respectful and outraged silence follow.

“Should I - know what that is?”

Merlin’s sake.  “No, I suppose not.”  Severus shakes his head, lips still trembling.  “ _Viridi Magicae_ is one of the most renowned books on herbal potions-making in the known world.  It is essentially the foundation of modern brewing.  For someone to vandalize it in such a manner - I simply cannot -”

“Are you okay?” Potter asks slowly, and Severus realizes he is breathing rather rapidly, the world flashing like spiderwebs at the corners of his eyes. 

“I certainly am _not._ ”

“Ach, laddie, ‘tis just a book,” the old witch beside Severus croaks, shaking her head ruefully before promptly falling back to sleep.

“It is not just a book.  It is over one thousand years old, it is a piece of history.  It is -” Severus trails off, biting his lip until he tastes the sharp salt of blood.  He realizes that Potter is watching him in silence, pupils huge and expression strangely blank.

“So - you think someone tore a page from this book - and then broke into the potions storeroom - to what?  To make whatever is written here?”

Severus looks again at the scrap of yellowed paper in Potter’s out-stretched hand.   It has been over a decade since he last saw this book, and even then it was behind glass at the Wizarding Library of London (or Will, as he called it, having frequented it enough to be on more familiar terms.)

“I will have to study these instructions further,” Severus says,  “to ascertain their exact purpose.  But there are only two copies of this book still in existence; if someone has gained access to one of them, with the intent of recreating this potion, we are not dealing with a student of this school.  This would be the work of someone vastly more skilled.”

“What do we do?”

The ‘we’ rolls off Potter’s tongue without the boy even flinching or blushing.  Severus, on the other hand, feels it like a switchblade between his ribs.

“Potter,” Severus says, regretting the words even as he forms them, “I believe I may require your-”

***

“-help is invaluable in this matter, as is your colleague’s,” Ms. Peggotty tells Harry, hovering like a fog over the children’s section. “You simply _must_ go to Rhodes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a month behind schedule, but here is an update at last. Thanks everyone for sticking with me and for all the amazing encouragement I've gotten so far! As this is still more or less unbeta'd, I adore your feedback and your comments. I wish I could say that updates would be more regular from here on in, but as I am going back to grad school NEXT WEEK, it might be more of the same. If you want to say hi, hassle me about writing more, talk social work master's anxiety, or basically affirm our mutual love for Snape and Harry, I'm at mia-ugly.tumblr.com.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imperator Furiosa voice: "Remember me??"
> 
> For anyone still interested, I EXIST. This semester was more stressful and time-consuming than I expected, and I am so sorry that I have not been able to update in such a long time. I promise you, this story has not been abandoned. For everyone that's been commenting and giving me kudos and hanging in there with me - oh my god, you are amazing!! I cannot thank you enough for keeping me motivated throughout the semester and making me believe that I would ONE DAY write something other than an essay, and that people might actually read it.
> 
> That said, after four months of full-time grad school and full-time work AND a practicum, it is difficult to weave together the threads of sexy wizard love once more. I hope this update isn't the hot mess I think it is, and IF IT IS all your feedback is so welcome and so helpful!

Chapter 5

 

“Potter,” Severus says, regretting the words even as he forms them, “I believe I may require your-”

***

“-help is invaluable in this matter, as is your colleague’s,” Mrs. Peggotty tells Harry, hovering like a fog over the children’s section. “You simply _must_ go to Rhodes.”

“Even if -”

“I shall have it all approved by the board, never you fear.” The librarian does not wait for Harry to finish. “This is bigger than anything as arbitrary as ‘budgeting restrictions.’  Only give me your word that when you do catch the honourless malefactor that’s been vandalizing our books, you allow me to deal with them.”

“I don’t know if that would be - strictly legal.”

“Well, then,” Peggotty ‘hmmphs.’  “At least try to stick to your ‘per diem’ allowance.”

The next day at work, there is an owl waiting for Harry in the break room, one of those barn-owl types with the sunset-coloured wings and face like a lamb.  It refuses to release its hold on the sealed letter in its beak until Harry basically tears it away, and that is how he realizes that the bird could belong to no one other than Snape.  

Harry makes himself a cup of tea, and drinks it while he reads the note.  After a moment, he is shocked to realize how familiar the slanted writing on the page is, how easily recognizable Snape’s Y’s and S’s are.  After a moment more, the owl hops up onto Harry’s shoulder and begins to nibble at his hair.

The note contains a potential date for the trip, and a request to reply with confirmation and a meeting place.  Harry stops and starts his answer more times than is necessary for something of such little significance, but - to be fair - there is a sharp beak rather close to his ear.  He suggests his address as their departure point, but as soon as the owl has the letter in its grasp and has taken off through an open window, Harry feels as if he’s made a mistake.  Is it odd to invite Snape round to his?  It’s not like he’s inviting him in for a drink or anything, it’s just - did Snape expect to leave from Will, or - is Harry acting too familiar, or is he -

He’s overthinking it.  He’s overthinking the hell out of it.

The night before the trip, Harry can't sleep, and he can't say why.  He has obsessively tidied his flat, swept the kitchen, moved the books and papers off the kitchen table to a shelf at long last.  Even still, he feels a strange, restless energy, and he stays up far later than he should rearranging his small number of possessions, opening the blinds and then closing them, polishing the taps until they gleam. It's the same sense of twitching anticipation he used to get waiting for Snape to show up at Will, but it can't have to do with Snape - it's to do with Greece, maybe, with the thrill of travel.  It’s to do with the unknown, with nerves and questions about the missing books.  It has to be something, because if the presence of a former professor in Harry’s home causes him this much anxiety, he should probably seek professional help.

Snape arrives a half hour earlier than Harry expects, so of course he looks a right mess - hair wet and sticking up at all angles, burgundy robe wrapped tightly around his shower-damp skin. 

“Oh!  Hello.  Sorry for - all this.” He waves his hand at his disheveled state as he opens the door.  “Thought you were coming round nine.  The plan was nine, wasn’t it?  Or have I lost my mind?”

Snape says nothing, bundled up in that ridiculous grey coat and looking - utterly poleaxed.  Harry quickly runs his fingers through his offensive hair.  He can’t look that wretched, can he?  Or perhaps Snape is upset that Harry wasn’t ready and waiting at the door a good two hours in advance.

“Nine,” Snape says, but his tone is distracted, as if the number has lost all meaning.

“Ha. Vindication.  I should make you wait outside, really, but I won’t.”

He leads Snape up the staircase to his apartment, third floor and vaguely the size of a closet.  Despite the frantic cleaning, Harry feels a bit embarrassed of it, and wonders what Snape thinks, wonders if (oh jesus) Snape feels bad for Harry, thinks the place is shabby and dim.  Or worse, if Snape finds it unremarkable - finds Harry’s small shelf of books proof enough of a uncultured mind, and - and why would that be worse, why would it even matter -

“Are you traveling to Greece in that ensemble?” Snape says, and Harry realizes he’s just been standing motionless in his kitchen, searching Snape for some sort of reaction.

“No.  Uh, no.  Right.  I’ll just - do you want a cup of tea or -”

Snape refuses with a wordless shake of his head, and Harry retreats gratefully to his bedroom.  He dresses in whatever he happens to grab first, conscious that every second he’s out of sight is another second that Snape is being left alone to snoop and judge.  When Harry emerges from his room, however, he finds Snape examining the potted plant on the windowsill, white fingers tracing the edge of one green leaf.  His eyebrows are drawn together, and Harry feels like he is intruding on something private, a strange moment of Snape lost in introspection.  Through the window, grey light catches the shine of Snape’s black hair,  and the hum of traffic purrs like a cat.

“It’s -” Harry begins.

“A peace lily.  I am aware.” Snape does not look up.  “You’re overwatering it.  And the light is hardly ideal.”

“Oh.  Okay.  It’s my biggest window, so I thought it was the only place for it.”

“It will bloom more frequently in a South facing room.”  Snape steps away from the window. “Are you sufficiently prepared?”

“Yeah.  Let me just grab my bag.”  Harry slings his satchel over his shoulder, already bursting with notebooks and pens and sunblock.  

“You have - Apparated internationally before?”

“Bit late to ask that, don’t you think?” Snape looks vaguely green, so Harry continues quickly. “I have.  Takes a bit out of you at first, but - it’s not too bad.  Have you?”

“Once or twice.” Snape shrugs out of his coat, and drapes it over the back of Harry’s sofa.  “Might I leave this here?  I do not believe the weather in Rhodes will be that inclement.”

“Of course.”  It feels a bit odd, Snape leaving something at Harry’s.  It feels - familiar.  The sort of thing a friend might do.

“And you know where we are going?”

Harry rolls his eyes, tucking his wand into his pocket.  He doesn’t need it, not for this.  He doesn’t tell Snape that he could probably Apparate clear to Canada if he wanted, doesn’t mention the floor-shaking nightmares he used to have back at Hogwarts (the crackle of magic he feels on his skin at every hour of the day, like static electricity just waiting to bleed from his gums and fingertips -)

“Potter?”

Harry ignores him.  He has to, just for a moment, just to picture their destination in his mind.  He knows the coordinates; he can see the latitude running through the earth like a crack in a mirror, and it calls to him, calls -

“Potter.”  There is a trace of alarm in Snape’s voice.  Harry doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but they’re closed now.

"Hold on to me," he says without thinking.  He tries to ignore the heat of Snape's hands on his forearms, and the way his fingers tighten as the lurch of Apparation takes over.  

When the ground finally reasserts itself beneath their feet, Harry keeps his eyes closed for just a moment longer, forcing down a clench of nausea and dizziness.  He can still feel the warmth of Snape’s hands on his, the ghost of Snape’s breath against his face and neck.  He waits for his pulse to stop thumping angrily in his wrists, waits for the earth stop tilting.   One breath.  Another.  

Just as he is about to lift his eyelids, his forehead collides with Snape's - a sickening crack - before they pull away from each other.

"Merlin's sake, Potter," Snape spits, releasing his hold on Harry's forearms.

"Sorry, sorry -" Harry rubs his forehead, stars flashing behind his eyes.  Brilliant, Potter, bloody brilliant. 

When his vision clears, Snape is standing a few feet away.  There is an azure sea wide and blue against his back.

Harry opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.  Snape smirks at him, or at least makes some strange amalgamation of a smirk and a wince.

The sky is cloudy, but it does nothing to diminish the vibrant blue of the sea, the white sand that curves like a body against it.  In the distance, he can make out the shadowy shapes of rocky cliffs.  It is impossibly beautiful and Harry looks at Snape to tell him as much, but the words dry up on his tongue when he catches Snape's unguarded expression (knitted eyebrows and small, sad twist of mouth). 

Snape instantly schools his face into a familiar scowl, but Harry feels something flutter in his chest, a bird or a river or something that should not be kept behind locked doors.

"Come," Snape says quickly, "Lindos is only a short distance from here, but we need to reach the library before mid-day."

“I thought we were going to Rhodes.”

“The island, not the city.  Our books are in Lindos.  This way.”

Harry follows him down a narrow road, watching the fine narrow lines of Snape's shoulders, the stoop of his spine.  He wonders at Snape’s familiarity with this path, wonders when he travelled to Greece before, and how old he was.  Once again, he’s struck by the odd realization of Snape’s humanity, of the life he previously led that had nothing to do with Harry or his mum or Hogwarts or anything familiar.  It is an unsettling thought.

“Try to keep up,” Snape says without looking back, “Surely the year in your library has not atrophied your muscles completely.”

Harry does not reply, largely due to the warmth that runs through his bones when Snape refers to Will as _Harry’s_. 

Lindos turns out to be a tiny white maze of a city, nestled low in the cliffs and over-looked by a crumbling stone acropolis.  The streets are cobbled and littered with market stalls, and Harry almost loses Snape numerous times in the crowds.  Once, Snape reaches back and grabs the cuff of Harry's sleeve, dragging him along, and it takes a good ten minutes before Snape realizes he's still holding on and all but shoves Harry away from him (granted, Harry should have noticed earlier, but he's perhaps a bit used to being dragged around the globe by infinitely more clever individuals).  

They reach the library in question, a small stone building that looks more like a church than a conventional library - although a church is not so bizarre a comparison (there are stranger things to worship than books.)  There is a dark-haired woman at the front desk scribbling furiously in a notebook, and at the creak of the opening door she looks up with a scowl.  The scowl fades into a smile when she sees Snape (Harry swallows around the strange lump that has somehow formed in his throat.)

Snape says something that Harry doesn’t understand and the woman gets up from the desk to shake his hand.  It should come as no surprise that Snape speaks fluent Greek, but again Harry can’t help but wonder when he learned it, and where he had to use it, and what other languages he speaks.  Snape and the woman chat back and forth for a few minutes, and Harry doesn’t want to bother them, doesn’t want to interrupt this weird moment of Snape being friendly with someone - but he also doesn’t know how long he should stand there gaping like a fish at the exchange.  Snape sounds like he does when he speaks Latin: a soft, smoky accent in his low voice, an effect that makes Harry feel light-headed, as if he’s had too much sun.  He lifts his hand to his forehead to see if he’s got a fever or something, and that catches the attention of Snape’s friend.

“Harry Potter,” she says.  There are strands of silver in her black hair, and lines around her eyes.  He cannot possibly place her age, though he’d say she was older than Snape by at least a few years. “I thought -” She trails off, saying something in Greek and Snape snorts.

“She thought you’d be taller,” he translates, and Harry tries his best to look amused.  Ha bloody ha.  She and Snape deserve each other. “This is Eleni Andreadis.”

“Hi,” Harry says, extending his hand to be shaken, “I’m a librarian too.”

“I am not a librarian,” Eleni responds, as if her entire existence has been belittled.  “This is not a library.  It is an archive.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, um -”  Harry drops his hand.  This is going brilliantly.  “So how do you two know each other?”

Snape translates the question, and Eleni laughs and says something else in Greek, and Snape shakes his head, mouth quirking in the hint of a smile.  Harry feels something like horror shiver over him because - Christ, did these two date?  Are they dating _right now?_  

“We have academic interests in common,” Snape says dryly, and _that_ does not answer any of Harry’s questions.

“I used to own a bookstore,” Eleni says, with her soft, melodic accent.  “I sold dear Severus his first copy of _Most Potente Potions_ and he has been mad for me since.”

Snape rolls his eyes, but Harry’s mind can’t let go of ‘dear Severus’ - teeth grinding tightly around it.  Dear Severus.  Dear Severus. 

“Shall we find your books, Mr. Potter?”

Dear Severus.  _Mr. Potter._  

Harry winces, and he doesn’t know why.  Neither does he know why he’s here in this library (yes, library, damn it) when there’s nothing he can offer to the investigation.  Certainly he can’t speak latin, or translate ancient spells into modern purposes.  And Eleni is leaning into Snape, saying something softly in Greek that makes him shake his head and curve his lips -

“I thought I might - look around the town a bit.” Harry forces the words between his teeth.  “I’m sure you don’t need me here.  You’d probably get more done without someone hanging over your shoulder.”

Eleni nods, _how practical, how thoughtful_ \- but Snape’s eyebrows draw together, a dark line creasing his forehead.  Just for a second.  Barely long enough to notice.  

“Of course,” he says and immediately turns back toward his friend, the two of them engrossed in conversation before Harry has even raised his hand in farewell.  

Harry stomps out of the building in protest, heading down the street before he realizes that he didn’t arrange a meeting place or time with his travel companion.  He’s too embarrassed to stomp back in, so keeps walking.  Let Snape figure it out.  He’s the one who will need to find a way home.

Harry knows he’s being ridiculous, and there’s no reason at all for him to be in such a mood.  Really, if Eleni and Snape are dating, good for them.  It doesn’t matter to Harry, and he can’t be moody because Snape would rather spend time with an actual friend (or girlfriend) than a hated former student.  Given the two options, there’s no choice, is there?  

Harry resolves to explore for an hour before heading back, and to stop taking Snape’s cool indifference for outright hostility.  Cool indifference is much more than Harry should expect, and much more than he deserves.  

“Harry Potter!” 

An unfamiliar voice startles him, and Harry stops in his tracks.  A swarthy man with a bald head and goatee is running towards him, cheeks flushed.  He beams when he reaches Harry, grabbing his hand and shaking it fiercely.

“I knew it was you, even at a distance.  The Boy Who Lived - what an honour.  And what brings you to Lindos, Harry Potter, what happy chance has delivered you to my home?”

Harry finds it difficult to gather his thoughts with his hand being pumped so enthusiastically.  He wasn’t expecting to be recognized and is totally unprepared for it.   After so long being invisible, it is a complicated shift to make.  

“Um - I’m just visiting for the day.  A work trip, actually.” He forces himself to focus.

“Arsenio Kakos, at your service.  That is my restaurant, just there, my pride and sweat and sorrow.”  The man gestures toward a white-walled building half a block away, blue letters reading “Arsenio’s”  painted on a hanging wooden sign.  “You must come in, you must eat with us.  It would be my honour to serve the one who saved us all.”

Oh Jesus.  Harry blushes, feeling the praise prickle uncomfortably against his skin.  He should be used to this but - but he never will be.  He’s torn between the urge to scream at Arsenio about all the people who died so that Harry even had one chance, _one bloody chance_ \- and the urge to turn around without another word and lock himself in his flat and never leave, ever again.

“You’re too kind,” he says instead, and Arsenio smiles.

“Tonight.  You are in Lindos for the day, correct? You must join us for dinner.  We make the finest moussaka in Greece, you will taste it, you will see.”

“I - I’m not just by myself, I’ll have to see what -”

“Any friend of Harry Potter’s is welcome at Arsenio’s.  You must come.”

“I’ll try,” Harry says.  “I don’t know -”

“The word of Harry Potter is worth its weight in Galleons.  I will have a table waiting and ouzo poured.”

“You really don’t have to.” Harry can’t help it, he’s a little bit charmed.

“I really do, Harry Potter.  It is the least I could on behalf of the wizards and witches of Greece, the very least.  Too little, in fact, but we do what we are able.”

Arsenio gives  a short bow and hustles back to his restaurant.  Harry immediately heads to the outskirts of town, somewhere close to the water and far from the crowds.  He longs for the ocean he saw when they first arrived, and after a few conversations with helpful locals, he finds his way to the beach.  It’s a long stretch of white sand leading to green-blue water that laps gently against the rocky inlet.  There are a few people walking along the shoreline and one sailboat skimming the waves.  Harry sits down and leans back on his elbows in the cool sand, closing his eyes against the glint of sunlight on water.  For a little while, the War is millions of miles away - so remote it might not even have happened.  So distant, Harry might never see it again.

For a little while.

He plans to get up after a few minutes and see the rest of the town.  The day is early yet, and there’s so much more to Lindos than just sand and water.  Harry tracks the sun’s progress between and behind clouds, and he leans back on his elbows.  There’s something hypnotic about the water against the shore, the susurrus of gentle waves amidst the occasional shriek of children.  Harry feels utterly transported; he could be anyone, anything - a wide sea of possibility stretching blue and hushed before him.

The sun shifts in the sky.  Harry buys a bracelet “guaranteed to ward off the evil eye” from an old woman pushing a cart through the sand, and laughs as she immediately wraps it around his wrist, knotting it carefully.  

Harry closes his eyes.  When he opens them again the sun is hidden behind clouds and there is a couple having a picnic a short distance from him.  He watches the space between their profiles grow ever smaller, their voices low in quiet conversation interspersed with the girl’s ringing laughter.  

He closes his eyes.  For a while, all he hears is laughter and the waves.  If he opens his mouth, Harry can taste salt on his tongue, saturating the air.  He decides he will never leave this beach.  He will grow old here and Snape will find his bones, bleached white and smoothed by sunlight and sand.  He loses himself in thoughts of Snape, and lets his mind drift in that shadowy world for a few moments.  Snape’s fingers tracing the edge of one green leaf.  Snape’s hands warm on Harry’s forearms.  Snape’s -

It's the soft clearing of his throat that gives the man away - an exasperated sound that Harry recognizes immediately.   He realizes with a start that he would recognize it anywhere.

He looks up to see Snape looming over him, black shadow against the bright grey sky.

"I startled you," Snape says.  He seems on the verge of saying something more before he thinks better of it, and snaps his mouth shut.  Harry nods, but it isn't Snape's arrival that he's startled by; it's the voice in his mind asking how much more of Snape he knows (the glimpse of black robes and hunched shoulders at the back of Aberforth’s funeral, calling to Harry like iron to a magnet, and he knew he just knew -)

"It's fine," Harry says.  He's gotten too much sun, that's what it is.  He's gone mad with salt and heat and beauty.  “What time is it? Sorry, I meant to come back.”

“Nearly four.”

“Four?” Harry repeats, stunned.  How could an entire day have passed him by?   
“I had no idea it had gone so late.  How did you -”

“Know where to find you?” Snape rolls his eyes.  “Do not act so surprised.  You are frightfully predictable.”

Snape has made no move to sit, so Harry reluctantly rises, brushing the sand off his jeans.  He supposes he won’t spend the rest of his life on this beach after all.  

"What did you find out about our books?” he asks, in the hopes that he can distract Snape from watching him clumsily hop about while attempting to dump the sand out of his shoes.  When he nearly falls over for the second time, he leans briefly on Snape for balance.  It’s an unconscious gesture, unintentionally done, but after Harry pulls away he realizes that Snape has said nothing in response to his question.  Nothing at all.  

In fact, the man has gone strangely red.

He’s blushing.  It strikes Harry like lightning.  Severus Snape is _blushing_.  The whole thing is more than a little disturbing, truth be told.  Snape blushes like he does everything else - awkward and unlovely, red blotches flaring high on his cheekbones and the bridge of his hooked nose.

“Um - you did find something?” Harry blurts, because the thought of Snape blushing is too unsettling to linger over.  “About the books?”

Snape blinks at him (dark eyelashes fluttering in a way that can only be described as ‘alarmingly pretty’ and makes Harry shiver inexplicably) and then nods.  

"The page taken from _Viridi Magicae_ is a restorative potion.  Some translation was required, but it seems as if the purpose is generally of the bone-mending variety."

"What, our vandal’s too good for an Episkey?"

"That is not the kind of mending I mean.  Imagine the spell required to mend a crushed limb.  The fine bones of an entire left hand.  Episkey is children's magic."

Harry can remember the spell coming in handy more than a few times in his short life, but he's not about to defend its honour.  Where Snape's concerned, he has a tough enough time defending his own.

“And the other?”

“ _Venenum Historia’_ s page contained - it is difficult to explain.  It is a growth acceleration potion.  There is a healing component there too, but it is - it is not something we use today.  It is almost spiritual in quality.”

So their vandal was sick, maybe?  Or hurt?  

“Why would someone need these spells?” Harry asks.  “Why not use more modern versions?”

Snape hesitates.  When he speaks next, there is a sad sort of longing in his voice.  

"This is Old Magic, Potter.  There are those who still value it above all others."

"Who?" 

"Are you asking me to provide names and addresses?"

"I'm asking you if it's Dark." Harry watches the slow bob of Snape's Adam's apple in his pale throat.  "If it's dangerous."

"Not inherently."  Snape blinks and looks away from Harry, staring out at the smooth sea.  "It is - complicated, I suppose.  I will know more once I've ascertained the purpose of the other potions.  Eleni seemed confident that she could locate _Les Elixirs Anciennes_."

"You'll keep helping us?" 

"It appears I have little choice in the matter.  I hardly expect you'd give me five minutes peace with the great mystery afoot."

"Know me well, do you?"

"Not at all," Snape says, and his tone is so quiet and intense that Harry feels that shiver of discomfort again, a cold static over his entire body.  He hopes Snape doesn't notice.

They walk in silence back to town, and by the time they reach Lindos’ cobbled streets, the sun is beginning to drop low on the horizon.  The evening air is cool and fragrant, and there is a dark ring of sweat around the collar of Snape's blue shirt.  Harry finds it startling somehow - the fact that Snape can sweat.  He finds a great many things startling, lately.

It isn't until he's passing Arsenio's that he remembers his dinner plans.  His stomach rumbles conveniently at the same time.

"Hungry?" he asks, with what he hopes it a winning smile.

"No," Snape says, without a hitch in his step.

"I could stand a bite to eat," Harry continues, chasing after him, "And we're here - in Greece and it's a beautiful evening and - "

"Potter," Snape glowers over at him.

"And I've made a promise, as it happens.  To the owner of the restaurant - that one, there.”

Snape glowers for a second longer before he keeps walking briskly down the cobblestones.  Harry sighs and follows.

"It's not entirely my fault - I've never been anywhere, you'd think you'd want me to take in some of the local culture or some sort of thing, and the chap who owns it is a wizard for one, and so excited - he all but made me swear an Unbreakable Vow that I'd come -"

"Potter, some of us have appointments to be kept and do not have the time nor the desire to gad about with former students on some bloody holiday -"

"It's just dinner," Harry protests, and Snape stops walking, whirling around to face him.

"I _do not wish_ to have dinner with you," Snape hisses, more upset than the prospect of a meal should really make anyone.  "What are you - did Eleni -"

The words die in the air, falling like moths, and Harry shakes his head, utterly bewildered.

"Did Eleni - what?"

"What?" Snape repeats. "Nothing."

They stare at each other for a long moment, Snape looking simultaneously terrified and thunderous.  Harry feels like he isn't the only one who's had too much sun.

"It's on me, anyway," he says.  Snape still seems convinced that this is all some great joke at his expense.  "Least I can do."

The corner of Snape's mouth twitches, and the scowl creasing his forehead begins to dissipate.

"It's on Will," he sniffs, and Harry can't see any problem with that.

Arsenio is even more delighted than their first meeting, if that can be believed.  Snape is surprisingly civil as they are ushered toward the 'best table in the house' and things get rapidly out of control from that point on.  The first two shots of ouzo are free, and the table is soon piled high with skewers and pita and tzatziki.  For the most part, Snape refuses to speak to Harry, and Harry is forced to carry on an awkwardly cheerful one-sided conversation with himself.  He pulls out all his best material - the man who got his hand stuck in a particularly amourous enchanted romance novel, the destruction of half the children's section when a new employee (while drunk) left the Feral Fiction unlocked overnight.  The men and women who come in daily, looking for "that book with a blue cover," or "the one about magic."

Snape does not laugh.  He barely looks up from his meal, but Harry can see his fingers trembling just slightly around his knife and fork, cutting tiny bird-sized bites of food from the massive amount he's left untouched.  He follows the path of Snape's fingers up his arm to his narrow shoulder and white throat.  Beneath the high collar of Snape's blue button-down, Harry can see a hard knot of scar tissue, almost silver in the candlelight.  He wants to touch it, suddenly - his want a tangible thing with teeth.  He feels it in his hands, hot and sharp, wants to reach out and prove to himself that Snape is still alive.

Of course, Snape chooses this moment to look up, eyes locking with Harry's own in the split second before Harry finds the presence of mind to look away.

"I know what you are doing."

"Hmm?  What?" Harry says, feigning distraction like he has a chance in hell.

"Desist in your open-mouthed staring.  I realize I can't be the most pleasant of subjects, but I hope I don't merit outright horror."

Again, Snape bites down on his lips, and Harry feels a strange electric current run across his skin.

"You're - you're teasing me," he says, not quite sure he believes it.

"Hmm?  What?" Snape says, taking a sip of his wine and looking the very picture of innocence.  

Harry breathes a laugh.  He should probably feel more uncomfortable, but it’s difficult to feel anything but brilliant with the food and wine and atmosphere.  Maybe even the company.  Maybe.

“You could have invited Eleni, you know,” he says carefully, because he can’t help himself, “if you wanted more of a visit.  Or to - to thank her.”  

He looks away from Snape, suddenly completely fascinated by his wineglass.

“She is a very busy person.  I was lucky she was able to devote this afternoon to our purposes.”

“Of course.” Harry traces his fingers along the rim of his glass, half expecting it to start making music.  He can see the question coming before he says it, every neuron in his brain screaming at him to stop, _stop, what are you even_ -

“Are you and - she -” _Stop, STOP -_

Harry hears the clink of Snape’s cutlery against his plate before he finally looks up.  Snape is not eating, and is staring at Harry with one eyebrow elegantly raised.  He doesn’t look furious, he looks more - entertained than anything.  The way a cat is entertained by an injured bird.

“Are she and I what.”  It is not a question.

“Just wondering if she’s - it’s none of my business, it just seemed like you two - maybe -” Fuck’s sake, how does he get out of this?  Could he fake some sort of aneurysm or - really, what in god’s name was he thinking -

“It _is_ none of your business. You are correct in that at least.”

“Right.  Okay.  Sorry,” Harry says quickly, trying to cut off any angry rants that might be heading in his direction.  Then Snape’s last sentence registers, and Harry can’t resist, fuck his life.  “But not correct in the - the other bit.”

“Good lord, Potter.  I’ve met House Elves with more tact.  No, Eleni and I are not dating, or whatever juvenile sentiment you seem to be implying.  She is a brilliant woman, but my inclinations do not -” 

Snape stops speaking.  He closes his mouth with an audible click of teeth.  Harry doesn’t know what he suddenly seems so upset about, he didn’t  -

Oh.

_Oh._

Harry feels heat rush to his face, and there’s no reason, it’s not like - it really doesn’t matter.  Snape being gay - if that’s what the man did in fact just reveal - is nothing - it’s nothing.  It doesn’t matter whatsoever.  The love-lives of the Hogwarts staff were not an infrequent topic of conversation among its students, and being queer didn’t even come close to the worst thing bloody Seamus Finnegan had to say about Snape.  It doesn’t change Harry’s opinion of the man in any way, really it doesn’t.  

It’s just - Snape was in love with Harry’s mom, right, wasn’t that what Harry saw in the Pensieve?  Wasn’t Lily Potter the only reason Snape protected Harry at all? He _knows_ that about Snape, it’s one of the few things Harry knows as a certainty and he can’t find it in him to let go.  He has a million questions, none that he dares voice.  Whatever it is he says next will have dire consequences for the rest of his life.

“You want the last of this pita?” Harry’s voice is embarrassingly unsteady.

Snape shakes his head, silent.

“Just - just to be clear -”

“This subject matter is closed for discussion.  Why it was even open to begin with speaks to my egregious judgement and low tolerance for red wine.”

“Right.  Sorry.  I shouldn’t have -”

“No, you bloody well should _not_ have.”

Snape raises a white hand in a completely obnoxious and yet somehow elegant gesture, and Arsenio’s wife hurries over with their bill.  Harry pays it, and barely escapes with only a handful of embraces and several kisses to each cheek; Arsenio even invites the kitchen staff out to shake Harry’s hand, and though most of them haven’t a clue who he is, Harry smiles and nods and tries to seem every bit the ideal image of the Boy Who Lived.  Snape remains in the shadows throughout, and while Harry is sorely tempted to call him over and wax poetic about his accomplishments for the Order, a quick look at Snape (the man’s terse shake of his head, fingers clenched bone-white against the dark blue of his shirt) sets Harry straight.  Snape is making a choice in this moment, and Harry will not take it away from him.  However badly he might want to.  

They walk back toward the city limits, the sheltered place by the sea where they first arrived this morning.  Harry notices his footsteps weaving just slightly, and has a moment of anxiety about how much wine he consumed.  He’s not concerned about Apparation - he’s done it successfully in worse states - but he is concerned about the mad whirl of his thoughts in such close proximity to the Potions Master, the weird tension in his skin that seems to register Snape’s every movement, every breath.   Snape has lapsed once more into silence, and Harry feels a bit wretched about bringing up Eleni at all, for prying heedlessly into the other man’s personal life.  And yet - he cannot regret that strange moment of openness, Snape speaking to him as if he were a confidant, or a friend.  The moment before Snape’s teeth snapped together, his hand on his wine glass and his eyes dark as ink where they were fixed on Harry’s own.

Christ, he really shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

When they’re nearly at their destination, Harry turns his gaze out toward the water instead of staring pathetically at his sullen companion.   The moon shines like silver over the slow movement of waves, and Harry feels a sudden longing that he did not expect, and cannot ignore.  Snape will doubtlessly kill him, but odds were on that outcome anyway.  

“Can I have five minutes?  Before we leave?” 

“Do you think five minutes will be sufficient to achieve a slightly less intoxicated state?  I’m mentally preparing myself to be Apparated into a sodding brick wall.”  

“I want to do one last thing.” Harry ignores Snape’s previous sniping remark.  “Five minutes, I swear.”

Snape grants his permission with an uninterested wave of his hand, and Harry is unlacing his shoes before he can change his mind.  He feels a strange frantic energy, something altogether surprising and yet familiar (he is fifteen years old and it is fall at Hogwarts - the air crisp and sharp and cold as Harry slices through the air on his broomstick, years and years laid before him as golden-coloured and sweet as toffee apples.) That’s what the feeling is, Harry realizes as soon as his bare feet touch the sand.  It isn’t youth, it isn’t nerves, it isn’t red wine - it’s possibility.  God, he hasn’t felt this way in years.  The black sea before him seems like an empty canvas, and Harry’s fists are full of glue and glitter.

“What are you -” Snape asks, and then answers his own question as Harry starts to roll up his trousers. “Oh.  How - embarrassingly poetic of you, Potter.”

Harry laughs Snape off, and walks to the very edge of the starlit sea, admiring the distorted reflection of lights in the dark water.  He dips his toe in and trembles at the unexpected cold.  It is almost December, after all.  One step further and both feet are submerged, the chills running up Harry’s spine like wet, grey mice.  He almost shrieks with shock, but bites down on his lips and turns back to look at Snape, ready to make some joke about his delicate nature.  But Snape -

Snape is watching Harry with a completely inscrutable expression on his face.  The only real source of illumination is the moon and the distant lights of town, but even in shadow Harry can read Snape’s face - the unhappy slant of his mouth and dark arches of his eyebrows.  It’s his eyes that stand out though, looking straight at Harry as if Snape’s never seen him before.  In the moonlight, Harry can see them moving, darting back and forth like Snape is searching for something, something he has no hope of finding.

As soon as Harry catches his eye, Snape shifts his expression back toward agitated disapproval.  It is an expression Harry is all too familiar with.  He considers it Snape’s ‘neutral.’

“Of all the juvenile wastes of time.  Some of us have homes to return to.”

“It’s bloody freezing.  Certain you don’t want to join me?”

“With a recommendation like that, how could anyone resist?  No, I will remain on the shore and hold out hope for an undertow.” 

“Charming.”

Harry turns away and wades out a bit farther.  Just enough so that his calves are wet, the bottoms of his rolled-up jeans damp from the occasional wave.  

“You’ll step on a bloody jellyfish,” Snape calls out behind him.

Harry snorts.  

“You’ll slice your foot open on a clam shell.  Do not expect me to come to your aid when it turns gangrenous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry calls back, feeling entirely too content for his own good.  His skin is beginning to grow accustomed to the temperature, and his blood is warm from wine.  He expects that Snape can see him from the shore, glowing in the dark.

“You said five bleeding minutes.  I am keeping track of - oh, Merlin’s sake.”

A moment later, Harry hears a hiss of discomfort and a quiet splash.  He turns to see Snape with his shoes off and pants rolled, stepping hesitantly into the water, and -

Legs.  Christ, Snape’s legs.  Harry is looking at them from the knee down, they exist.  His legs are very pale, but covered with wiry black hair - much more than Harry expected.  He feels like he could stare at Snape’s legs for hours, days - the curve of his calf muscle, the delicate bones of his ankle, the arch of his foot.  His mouth opens, and he wrenches his eyes away, meeting Snape’s in hot and open shock.  What the hell is happening, what in god’s name is Harry - what is -

Snape scowls, heedless of the frantic rush of Harry’s thoughts, the jagged stained-glass of his imaginings.

“Satisfied?” Snape asks, trudging slowly through the water.  He winces distastefully with each step, and Harry cannot look at him.  He forces himself to turn away, to focus on the lights of far-off cargo ships, people hundreds of miles away making journeys altogether their own.  

A sudden wave crashes higher than the rest, soaking the knees of their trousers and spraying Harry with a fine mist of seawater.  Snape snorts with derision (when really he should be thanking Harry for blocking him from the worst of the spray. )  Harry grumbles in complaint, wiping his stinging eyes.  When he can see again, Snape is standing beside him, eyes slightly wrinkled at the corners.  Almost as if the man wants to smile.  Harry wishes that he would.

“Ha ha,” he says sarcastically, brushing damp hair off of his forehead.   Something is tickling the corner of his eye, and he blinks again, rubbing his hands across his face.  Snape watches him impassively, eventually shaking his head.

“No, you’re missing it.  Just - there.”  

He reaches out and pushes a stray curl back from Harry’s temple.

Harry flinches at the contact, and Snape seems to realize what he’s doing.  He pulls his hand away and knots it into a fist, dropping it to his side.  Their eyes are locked together, and Harry wants - what does he want?  There’s something so close and dire, hovering in his mind and heart like those ship lights in the distance.  He can see it, he can almost feel it -

“We should go,” Snape says. “If you are in any fit state to Apparate, which somehow I doubt.”

Harry does not trust his voice, and only barely manages to nod.  They return to the shore and their shoes.  Snape keeps his face tilted toward the ground, and slams his eyes shut when Harry approaches him. 

“Ready?” Harry asks, and Snape jerks his head, once.

“Hold on to me.”  They are the same words from that morning, but somehow they feel kinetic now, each syllable vibrating.  Snape holds on, and Harry closes his eyes.

They arrive in Harry’s living room, and there is no crashing of heads together this time.  Harry does not release Snape until the forces of physics reinstate themselves, and no sooner are his hands empty then he hears Snape’s quick steps backward, immediately heading for the door.

Harry thinks that’s it, thinks Snape is going to walk out the door without even a goodbye - but the older man lingers there for a moment, pale hand clutching the doorknob like he wants to break it off.  The only sound is the traffic, and the electric hum of rain on a hundred different roofs.

“Snape?” Harry says, voice softer than he intends.  

Snape tilts his head slightly, but does not turn around.

“Do you - can you find your way home from here?  Should I call -”

“I’m not an infant, Potter.  I am more than capable of navigating the Underground.”

Still Snape does not leave.  It’s as if he’s waiting for something, but Harry has no idea what that might be.  Something is happening inside him, an almost painful desire to move or shout or - do something completely mad.  Why hasn’t he turned away yet, why hasn’t Snape left, why is Harry so transfixed by the scar on Snape’s neck, creeping like ivy around the side of his throat?

“It was a nice day.” 

Harry regrets the inane comment almost instantly, but Snape only turns slightly more towards him, otherwise unmoved.  He presses his lips together, and Harry watches the motion, hypnotized.  The shape of Snape’s lips is so precise, a thin cupid’s bow, barely a shade darker than the rest of his skin.  Harry wonders if he tastes like ouzo or red wine, wonders if his crooked teeth would be sharp, wonders if there’d be a hint of stubble against his jaw and neck.  

But that’s - that’s mad, he’d never - and _Snape would never -_

“My coat,” Snape says suddenly.  “It’s - your couch.”

“Your coat!” Harry is beyond grateful to have something else, _anything else_ to think about.  He grabs it off the sofa and crosses the short distance to press it into Snape’s hands.  

“Here.  Sorry.  Almost forgot.”  In this close proximity, Harry can smell the dampness of seawater on Snape’s skin and in his hair.  There suddenly doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the room.

“It was a nice day,” Harry says again.

“Yes, you’ve said.”

“Thank you.  For that.  For everything you’re doing for the library, and -”

“I do not want your thanks.”

Snape still hasn’t left, still lingers in Harry’s doorway like an unanswered question.  Harry takes a breath, feeling dizzy and wound so tightly that windows might shatter at any moment.

“I know you don’t.  But you have it.”

Snape shakes his head.  “Goodnight Potter.”  

“Good - goodnight.”

Snape twists the doorknob, but that’s as far as he gets before Harry surges forward, the world going white-hot behind his eyelids.

( _“My inclinations do not -”)_

_(“It means piss off back to Hogwarts.”)_

_(“What do you know about my eyebrows?”)_

Snape tastes like ouzo _and_ red wine, and his mouth falls open in a gasp as Harry kisses him.

‘ _Finally’_ rings out like a bell in a tower; Harry can’t be sure whether he spoke it aloud or if the word is throbbing along with his pulse as he traces the outline of Snape’s upper-lip with his tongue.  He dimly registers the pressure of two hands on his biceps, fingers clenching to the point of bruising in one brief, convulsive grasp _yes yes finally_ -

  * before he’s pushed away.



The absence of Snape’s mouth seems like an injury for the first moment, an unbearable absence that needs to be remedied immediately.  

For the first moment.

The moment before Harry’s brain catches up with his body.  

He looks with wild, horrified eyes at Snape, who wears a matching expression. _Oh god I’m sorry so sorry_ are bullets through Harry’s brain, but he can’t remember how to make his mouth work; the kiss has broken it, ruined him utterly.  Snape, _Snape_ of all people - his mother’s friend, his most hated teacher, the man who _killed Dumbledore_ , a spy and a hero and a martyr and - and - 

“ _You_ -” Severus says through lips gone white. “You are drunk.” 

He takes a step back, and then another.  Each footstep sounds like something fragile hitting the ground.  Snape wrenches the door open.

“Do not touch me ever again.”

Snape slams the door behind him, rattling the frames on the walls, the plant on the windowsill, Harry’s pounding heart.  Fuck, he thinks - the only appropriate word for the situation, and then _fuck fuck fuck_ over and over again, the word racing like adrenaline in his veins.  What the hell had he been thinking?  To - to drunkenly kiss someone - and for that someone to be Severus Snape - 

Harry might be ill, and it has nothing to do with how much alcohol he had with dinner, or how much sun he got that afternoon.  Everything, everything was going so well - Snape was tolerating him and they were in Greece and now Harry has - has destroyed it, destroyed everything.  

Where the hell had this come from, where did this feeling even begin?  Was it just Greece, was it this bloody day with the ocean and sky, or did it start earlier (Snape’s  head resting on Harry’s shoulder “who won who won who won -”)

“Fuck,” Harry says out loud, and his voice breaks on the word.  

This cannot be happening.  

“I kissed Snape,” wakes Hermione from sleep, scrabbling for her wand as Harry stumbles into her bedroom.  He really shouldn’t have flooed anywhere in the state he’s in, but there will be plenty of time for regret in the morning.

“You - god, Harry, do you have any idea what time it is?” Hermione turns on her bedside lamp, and Harry covers his eyes against the offensive brightness.

“Hermione -”

“I heard you, I just think that you could have at least rung me first or -” 

Harry sees the moment that his previous statement makes an impact, the way her hands inadvertently flutter against the quilt.

“I’ll - put the kettle on.”

Harry nods.

Over two cups of _Bengal Spice,_ he spills the whole ridiculous story, trying to ignore Hermione’s small gasps and coughs of surprise.  At first he has to stop and start several times, each word like a splinter in his palm, somehow burying itself deeper with every passing second.  After awhile, he finds he can breathe a bit easier, speak without his voice trembling, but he absolutely cannot lift his gaze from the teacup in his hands.  He cannot look at Hermione’s face and read the obvious disapproval and surprise and sadness that will certainly be there.

“It was a mistake, it was beyond stupid.  And now I don’t know how I’m ever going to face him again, how I’m going to look at him and not - not just die of embarrassment.  And maybe I won’t have to face him - but that’s almost worse, because if I’ve driven him away forever by doing this totally awful, crazy -”

“It doesn’t sound crazy,” Hermione cuts in.  “Not to me.”

Harry does look up at her now, and she isn’t wearing the expression he expects.  Instead, her gaze is very serious, thoughtful - as if she’s about to write a particularly challenging exam.

“You’ve been - fixated on Snape for ages,” Hermione says slowly, slotting the pieces together in her marvelous brain.  “Even before he gave you his memories, even before you saved him in the Shack - you were always watching him.  Talking about him.  Trying to figure him out.”

“I was suspicious,” Harry protested, because - no, he hadn’t been at school thinking about his professor in a way that - 

No.  

“But after you found out where his true loyalties were, you became - I don’t know, his champion or something.  You were a bit fanatical about it.  We all heard you at that pub in York, you would have murdered someone if we hadn’t dragged you away.”

“I would not have.  And it wasn’t right, what those pricks were saying - they didn’t know what happened, they didn’t know him -”

“And you did?” Hermione asks softly.  Harry does not reply because - no, of course not.  He doesn’t know Snape at all.  “You’ve barely spoken of anything else since he showed up at the library.  I had wondered a bit, whether this was all misplaced guilt, because you have misplaced guilt to spare.  But now I see - maybe -”

“What?”

“Harry, do you -” Hermione looks briefly like she’d rather be doing anything else.  “Do you - _like_ him?”

(The brief, frantic pressure of Snape’s fingers on his arms, the rough gravel of his voice, “You - you are -”)

“No,” Harry says immediately, the reaction exploding out of him through habit and denial and sheer, bone-shaking terror. “ _No_.  Snape?  No.  I was dating Ginny not even two months ago, I - I wasn’t lusting after some bloke old enough to be my dad.  And he - and my mom - I know what I saw, I know that he loved her.  He - he would never -”

Hermione says nothing for a moment, just watches Harry until his skin crawls under the scrutiny.

“What do I do?”

Hermione reaches out and puts her hand on his. “After everything you and Professor Snape have done to each other, I highly doubt that a drunken kiss could be the most damaging.  Get some sleep.  Give it some time.  Apologize.  Things will sort themselves out.”  As if it could be that simple.  As if it was that easy. “Though Harry, you shouldn’t just - kiss someone.  I know it seems rather romantic but ask first next time.”

“Next time?” Harry almost chokes on his last sip of tea.

“Next time you kiss _anyone_ , not next time you kiss Snape.  Stop looking so horrified.”

Harry sleeps at Hermione’s that night, a blessedly dreamless sleep that he really doesn’t deserve.  He makes her blueberry pancakes the next morning by way of apology, and while he still feels like a complete prat and imbecile, he can breathe and speak without nearly throwing up - so that’s something.  By the time he returns to his flat, and has the longest and hottest shower his water tank will allow, he’s come up with a plan.  It’s not much of a plan, and it might all backfire spectacularly.   But - it’s a start.  If nothing else, it’s a start. 

Snape sacrificed everything to protect Harry, and win the War, and even solve a mystery at Will.  Harry repaid him by acting ridiculous and licking into his gorgeous mouth (ouzo and red wine, and don’t think about that, don’t think about that ever again.)

He has to make it right.  Harry has a plan, and he can’t pull it off by himself, but if anyone can do it, he knows --

* * *

“-- it’s morning dew.  It has to be.  That’s why it’s that silvery colour, right?”

Potter holds the bottle toward Snape’s canvas.  Snape has the run of the place tonight, having set Evelyn upon the previous tenant.  Currently the two of them are off somewhere looking for seashells.   

“It appears to be the right shade.  And the taste?”

“Sweet.  Like - not like sugar but what’s that - almond extract or -”

“That will suffice.  Do not strain your limited vocabulary on my account.”

Potter ignores him, re-stoppering the bottle of dew and shelving it.  He grabs the one beside it and squints at the label in the lamplight.

  “Salamander blood.”

“If you would be so kind.”

Potter winces, but unstoppers the bottle nonetheless.  Making a face, he dabs a tiny drop on his finger and darts it up to his mouth, as if the velocity might lessen his sense of disgust.

“Yep, that’s blood.  I’d make a wine-tasting joke, but I’m too upset to be funny right now. When I get all sorts of unspeakable diseases from this, it’ll be up to you to save me.”

“What are unspeakable diseases when measured against the safety of First Year potions students?” Severus asks dryly, “And blood does not just taste like blood.  Salamander blood should have a distinctively bitter taste - less salty than the human variety.  Also, I would be grateful if you would refrain from any vampire-related humour at this time; I assure you I have heard it all before.”

Potter almost smiles.  “I guess it tasted bitter, but - not overly.  I don’t know.  I’ll let you judge the colour.  Please tell me I can have some pumpkin juice now.”

“Go ahead.”  

Potter takes a swig from the large glass he brought from the kitchens, swishing the juice around in his mouth before swallowing.  Severus does not watch the slow bob of his throat.

“Here.” Potter is on his feet moments later, crossing the hallway to hold the bottle of blood toward Severus’ painting.  Even in the dim light the blood looks entirely too clear, a bright ruby instead of the deep garnet red that Severus remembers. It could have been diluted - but without the means to test it himself, Severus has few options.

“I am - uncertain.” He hates to admit it, _hates it_.  “Add it to the suspect ingredients.  I’ll have Alcott examine them.”

He and Potter have spent the last few nights in the potions store room.  Alcott Prawn may be the most incompetent Potions Master the known world has ever seen, but that does not mean Severus can just sit idly by while the man burns Hogwarts to the ground through shoddy ingredient maintenance.  Add to that the fact that someone has most likely been stealing from the store room, and Severus’ time is suddenly quite sufficiently occupied .  His effectiveness is hampered by a lack of any means of interacting with the godforsaken world, but Potter had volunteered so nicely - it almost makes Severus regret the amount of beetle eyes, crushed tube worms, and fangtooth scales the boy has to taste.  

Unsurprisingly, a number of ingredients seem to be compromised - though whether it is from age or ignorance or conscious sabotage, Severus cannot be sure.  There is one particular jar of saffron that Severus would wager his left hand had been half-emptied and mixed with American saffron - similar in appearance but worlds apart in flavour and purpose.  The American variant is much cheaper, and would be a canny replacement for someone who is taking ingredients but does not want to be noticed.  Unfortunately, Potter’s sense of taste is less than refined, and few hard conclusions can be drawn.  The two of them are rapidly filling a crate with ingredients for Alcott to examine, though any results that sentient ottoman with a teaching degree obtains will be somewhat less than reliable.  

“Are we finished for now?” Potter asks, lifting his arms above his head as he stretches.  “I’m almost for bed, I think.  And I don’t know how well my tastebuds are functioning at this point; that Acromantula venom fried them off.”

Potter is getting more sleep of late, or so it seems.  Since the break-in, and their newfound investigation of the potions store room, Potter does not have such deep circles under his eyes, does not have the slightly transparent look of a chronic insomniac. 

“I had forgotten how delicate you are,” Severus sniffs. 

Potter rolls his eyes, but the gesture is far too amused, far too familiar.  It makes Severus vaguely uncomfortable - he should not be familiar with any aspect of Harry Potter.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?  After supper?”

“Perhaps,” Severus manages, fooling no one, least of all himself.  

“I’ll have a word with Alcott, see if he wants to take a look at all this.”

“What Alcott Prawn wants is irrelevant at this point.”

“You’re quite right,” Potter says, with another grin that is in danger of becoming a full smile.  Severus flees the painting before he risks a glimpse of it.  There are some things he should not be expected to bear.  There are some things that cannot be witnessed without paying much more than a man like Severus owns.

Potter’s smile is one of those things.  Severus may be dead, but he can still feel.  The pain of Potter’s smile is a strange, keening sort, and while Severus cannot explain its origin, he is not required to tilt back his head and expose his throat to it.  He can leave whenever he wants, and it isn’t called running away, it’s called self-preservation.

During the days, Severus reads over the scrap of parchment they discovered, having transcribed it onto a piece of paper in his potions lab.  He is thankful for such small kindnesses as functioning quills and ink (without the ability to scratch a few words down on paper, he’s certain he’d go mad.  Or madd _er_ , at least.)  It is, as he suspected, a potion, and the more he examines it, the more convinced he becomes that _Viridi Magicae_ is its source. The turn of phrase and ingredients are described exactly as they were during that particular time period, and Severus is certain the slanted writing is familiar for a reason.  It’s a bone mending potion most likely, but an antiquated one.  Surely whoever committed this travesty could have found something a little more modern for their purposes.  Surely they did not need to destroy a piece of history in their quest to mend a broken arm.  

It is a shame he has limited  contact with his previous acquaintances in the living world.  There was a woman who could have been a great help in this, an archivist that was living in Greece last he heard.  He wonders if there are any paintings in Greece that he can remember.  

He supposes not.

Severus does not even pretend not to look for Potter in the nights that follow.  On evenings that Severus does not meet him at the potions store room, he’ll often find Potter waiting outside his portrait shortly after curfew, arms crossed and soft curve at the corners of his lips.

“Fancy a walk?” Potter asks, and Severus does.

He spends these evenings following Potter around the school in an entirely different way.  It should feel identical to their previous strolls, but it does not.  Potter usually does not speak, and neither does Severus, but occasionally Potter will glance over and nod in silent greeting.  Occasionally Potter will wait for Severus at the end of a hallway, letting Severus choose whether to proceed left or right.  It is more relaxing now that Severus doesn’t have to keep his presence a secret.  He does not have to step as lightly, does not have to slink like a cat through some of the more brightly lit still lives.  He can focus instead on his surroundings - on the sound of Potter’s soft breathing, the rustling of his robe, the way he occasionally pats his right pocket, feeling for the shape of a wand. 

It is almost a week since they discovered the vandalized store room when Severus reveals his conclusion.   They are wandering up the main staircase, paintings clustered together like patchwork.  Severus feels almost like he is walking beside Potter in the same hallway, the same world.  Their footsteps are slow and evenly matched.  

“What do we do next?” Potter asks.

“I - am not certain.  There is only one library I am aware of that has _Viridi Magicae_ in its collection, and it would not be available to the general public.  I find it difficult to believe that someone could have broken into Will.”

“Will?” Potter asks.  Severus should not be surprised by the boy’s lack of culture.  Really, he shouldn’t.

“The Wizarding Library of London.  Merlin, I thought at least Miss Granger would have introduced you to a landmark of this magnitude, but perhaps Weasley is taking up too much of her time.”

“Yeah, that or destroying Horcruxes and killing a Dark Lord.  Either way.”

Severus suppresses a grimace that Potter has not earned.  

“I have heard of it,” Potter continues, “just never been.  You think they have this book?”

“It was in their collection when last I visited.  Granted, that was a long time ago.”

“Hmm.” Potter considers, coming to a stop at the top of the staircase.  Severus is in a seaside scene, shoes and cuffs damp from walking along the shoreline.  He’ll dry off soon enough, but finds the sensation of water against his skin more than worth the brief discomfort of clinging fabric.  As Potter thinks, Severus stands at the very edge of the starlit sea and watches him.  There is something - some part of the boy that seems to need watching.  Severus cannot place it, but neither can he stop himself.  

“Perhaps I should go to this library.   I’ve got next weekend free.  Hermione would come - she’s in London and she never turns down a chance to look at old books. I could bring the paper we found and see if it matched.”

Severus nods.  “It is a place to start, certainly.”

“And if it is this book you keep talking about, this _Verdi Magical_ thing -”

“Do not attempt to say its name again, it causes me physical pain -”

“If it _is_ that book, then - what?  What will that tell us?”

Severus rubs the bridge of his nose.  “It will tell us that someone is attempting to brew a potion vastly beyond their skill.  This is Old Magic, Potter.  It is not something one should consider lightly.”

“Is is Dark, then?”

“Not inherently, no.  But neither is it particularly Light.  It is - complicated.”

Severus watches Potter shiver, can even make out the goosebumps that travel up the back of his neck.  

“Are there - any paintings in that library that you remember? Any way you could come -”

“ _No_.” Severus cuts the boy off, the feeling of helpless isolation slicing through him like a razor.  He wishes Potter had not asked.  “No.”

Potter nods, eyes on the ground.  “Of course.  Sorry.  I - I forget sometimes that -”

“I’m deceased? Beyond the veil?  Gone the way of all flesh?”

“You don’t need to be mean about it.  I’m not an idiot.”

“Well -”

“ _I get it_ ,” Potter says again.  “Just - it seems so - I wish that -”

If Potter is about to apologize to him again, Severus will fill his pockets with stones and throw himself into the sea (it occurs to him briefly that such a dramatic gesture would doubtless be fruitless, and he would spend eternity weighted down at the bottom of an Old Delft Blue ocean, with flecks of Cobalt Green Turquoise in his eyes and in his hair.  And that leads to darker, strangers thoughts - like how far does this sea go?  How far could he swim into that cold water before he hit canvas?)

“I wish that there was something I could do.  Wish I could tuck you in my bag and take you on the train or something.  As if -”

Potter’s voice dries up, and Severus reels back to the present where the ground is still beneath his feet and his pockets are empty.  He tells himself that at least it wasn’t another apology, though it was equally pointless.

“I regret that I am quite beyond your help.  There are some things even the great Harry Potter cannot set to rights.”

It is meant to rile the boy, but instead it just makes him look - strange, somehow.  Sadder and softer and - _older_ even, though Severus does not know what to make of that.    While Severus might rejoice in getting under Potter’s skin, his current unplaceable expression only makes Severus feel - sorry.  Guilty.  He wants a time-turner to come alive and golden in his palm, pulling back the previous sentence before he can speak it.   It is completely absurd, and far too whimsical, but Severus feels regret, sharp as the canine tooth pressing down into his tongue.

Potter shakes his head, which Severus does not expect.  Neither does he expect the odd frown to go gentle about the edges, almost like a smile if smiles could be crushed to dust in someone’s clenched fist.  He watches as Potter turns and walks away, just a few steps down the hall.  He could leave the boy alone if he wanted, could stop following him around like an English setter any time, this evening, this second.  Potter takes a few more steps away, and Severus admires the lines of his shoulders and length of his neck in the torchlight.  

He hurries to catch up.

The next weekend Potter goes to London, bidding a quick farewell to Severus in the morning before he catches the train. He is wrapped in a heavy cloak, and Severus realizes it is well into December, the end of the year hurtling toward them like a curse.  It is astonishing how time passes him by, loose coins that slip through his fingers.   Even as Severus tries to grasp them all, to hold them tight, time scatters across the floorboards and another month is gone.  Another.  Another.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to just exist - no horrors waiting around the corner for you in the dark, no madmen with pale eyes holding wands against your throat, no  kindly old wizards offering you as a sacrifice on an altar.  It is a much more comfortable existence, but also a more muted one.  Sometimes it feels like everything outside his portrait has faded to sepia tones (save for the dark burgundy of Potter’s robes, the flashing green of his eyes, and Merlin knows why these things still shine so brightly but they do.  For some reason, in the midst of a dull world, Harry Potter radiates colour.)

With the boy gone for the weekend, Severus feels a bit unbalanced.  He spends every night walking with him, and barely knows what to do with a night to himself.  He sleeps, strangely enough, sleeps as if he hasn’t slept in years.  When he next opens his eyes, it is to the soft clearing of a throat, and Severus roars awake, _he’s back, he’s_ -

Potter is not back, as it happens - not that it matters to Severus one way or another.  Rather, Evelyn has never left.

“There is a painting of Quidditch in the school!” the child exclaims.  “Can you imagine?  Will you take me to a game?  Only I’ve never seen one before, and the children are so keen on it.   Sometimes I like to imagine it, when I’m by myself. I think I’d be the Sneaker on account of being so fast!”

This is all a lot to process in a short amount of time.  Particularly for someone still on the ragged edge of sleep.

“Evelyn,” Severus begins, rubbing his temples.  “You - where is this painting?  Also I can hear you perfectly well if you speak at a normal volume.  I haven’t yet gone completely deaf.”

“My sincere apologies,” Evelyn says solemnly, before immediately resuming his previously unbearable pitch  “The painting is on the first floor, by the hospital wing.  I haven’t been, I’ve just heard about it - that boy in the field who is playing with his dog, you know, the big white dog?  He told me about the painting, and he wasn’t very friendly, but at least he let me pet her this time.  She has the softest coat, it was just lovely.”

“You can easily visit a painting on your own, you realize.  You do not need my permission.” _Quidditch,_ Snape thinks, with a curl of his lip.  He’s seen enough to last a lifetime.

“But what if the boy and his dog are there?  He calls me Eve _lame_ even though he knows it isn’t my name. I don’t really know what he means but it sounds quite nasty, doesn’t it?  If you were there he’d probably let me stay and watch the game because everyone’s a bit afraid of - um -”

“Afraid of _me_?” Severus is not offended, far from it.  It does his heart good to know that even in death, he can still intimidate children.

“Not me, of course!  I like you!”

The terrible earnestness of the sentiment does things to Severus’ chest and throat, and he blinks until he can speak again.  Perhaps the idiot boy deserves a Quidditch match.

Evelyn shows Severus the way to the painting, and it is just as described.  They find themselves at the edge of a Quidditch pitch, right beside the packed wooden stands.  Players whizz through the sky above their heads, and the sun is just beginning to set in the distance, turning the grounds a disquieting gold.  Severus can almost taste nightfall approaching, and there is a crisp autumn wind in the air, almost too cold to be comfortable but not quite, not quite.  It is a lovely painting, and Evelyn is too overwhelmed to speak for a good ten minutes, mouth open and head craned backwards.

“Which one is the Sneaker?” he whispers finally, and Severus rolls his eyes.

It occurs to him that he has not seen this painting before - which is surprising, given his familiarity with the school.  It might be a new addition, but Minerva is not in the habit of ordering new artwork for the already cluttered walls, and a sports scene does not really seem her style.  Severus squints his eyes past the edge of the artwork, seeking out the world beyond it.  

He sees a small room, with an unmade bed.  There is a nightstand and a rickety bookshelf, mostly empty except for a few Quidditch magazines and glossy paperbacks.  There is a narrow window along one wall, below which rests a potted peace lily (obviously not long for this world with the amount of light available to it.)  There is a burgundy bathrobe draped haphazardly over the bedframe, and a small framed photo of Lily Evans and James Potter, laughing and smiling and - and -

Severus backs up so quickly he almost knocks Evelyn to the ground.

“Mr. Snape?”

“This is - this is a Professor’s private quarters.  It is not -” There is something unsettling about the rumpled sheets on the bed, as if Potter just rolled out of them, as if they might still be warm.  “It is not appropriate to - to visit without -”

“Are you all right?  You keep stopping and starting.”

“ _Yes,_ I am quite - no, I am - we should not be here.  It isn’t -”

“But we just got here! And I want to see who wins!  Oh, can’t we stay?”

Severus wonders suddenly whether there will be a winner to this game, or whether the players will spend eternity in flight, the crowds endlessly waiting.  It seems like a cruel and unusual form of punishment when one thinks of it like that.  Though perhaps others with more love for the sport would feel differently.  

“ _You_ may stay, _you_ may do as you like.  I will not violate Potter’s privacy in such a -”

“Is this Professor Potter’s room?” Evelyn gasps, the wonders of Quidditch temporarily forgotten.  Severus should have chosen his words more carefully.  “No, is it really?  He wouldn’t mind us being here, I’m sure!  He’s ever so nice.  It’s not very big, is it?  Who’s that photo of?  What do you suppose he -”

“Evelyn.  I am leaving.”

“Must we?” The boy looks wretched, but Severus is not moved.  “The boy with the dog comes here all the time.  Or at least that’s what he says, but I don’t always know if he’s telling the truth.”

Severus is not about to prolong this discussion any further, and turns sharply away, leaving the roar of the crowd muffled behind him as he steps back into darkness.  A few moments later he has arrived back at his own portrait, the sad crumple of Potter’s blankets the farthest thing from his mind.  A few moments after that, Evelyn shows up, shrill with apology and refusing to be placated until Severus swears he “isn’t angry and doesn’t hate him utterly.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Evelyn, no.  I like you.” He repeats the child’s own words back to him, and tries not to sound as mortified as he feels.  It does the trick; Evelyn beams and even attempts to hug Severus before he is successfully fended off.

After the child leaves, Severus falls back to sleep once again, going weightless in the armchair that serves as his bed.  He does not think about the peace lily on the windowsill, or the shape of Potter’s hands against dark green leaves.

When he opens his eyes again,  Harry Potter is standing before him, cheekbones red with the cold and snow still melting in his hair.

“Hi,” the boy says.

Severus rubs his eyes, and rolls his shoulders, and damns himself for being caught unawares.  He should have been prepared for this, had an entire bloody weekend to pull himself together.  There is no reason for Potter’s face to set off this kind of reaction in him, a firecracker exploding in the darkness.

“Sorry to wake you.  Just got back and came to see you straightaway.  It really was a beautiful library.  You’re right, I should have visited it ages ago.  Took the train down and it was lovely, seems so long since I’ve been on a train.  What did you get up to?  It feels like -”

“You needn’t share your memoirs with me.” Severus’ voice is still rough with sleep.  “And if you’re going to wake me up at - um -”

“Three in the afternoon,” Potter supplies, with a bit of a grin.

Christ.  “Yes, well, I would hope there was some type of reason, however insignificant, aside from reminiscing over your lovely holiday.  Fascinating though every word out of your mouth surely is -”

“Remind me never to wake you up again, you’re completely unbearable.  I did have a reason, as a matter of fact.  It just so happens that Will’s copy of _Verité_ -”

“ _Magicae_ ,” Severus finishes for him, before the boy can butcher the rest of the title.  “What of their copy?”

“It’s been vandalized.  Someone stole a page from it.” Potter folds his arms as if he’s cracked the sodding case and expects Severus to pin a medal on his chest.  Really, he’s beyond ridiculous.  Severus is not at all charmed, not even slightly.  “And it’s not the only one.”

Whatever pointless thoughts occupied Severus’ mind before flee like foxes from a hunt.  Other books.  What other books?

“I wrote them down.” Potter is fumbling in his pockets for a piece of paper, wiping the fog off his glasses so he can read.  “ _Venenum Historia_ by Pliny the Shorter.”

That - that is - 

No.

“They took three pages from it, actually.  And -”

“ _Venenum Historia?_ " Severus repeats, because - because perhaps if he speaks the words they will make some semblance of sense. “That cannot be - do you have any idea how old that book is?  Any idea how valuable?"

"Some?” Potter says hesitantly.

“What else?  What bloody else?”

“Um - _Difficulte Potions and How to Brewe Them.”_

"What - what in Merlin’s name is going on at that library? Can any imbecile with a library card and a pair of scissors take what they want from books that rightfully belong in a museum?  Is Will a source of collage material at this point?  This is outrageous, this is -”

Potter nods in sympathy, but Severus is not fool enough to believe the boy understands the force of Severus’ ire.  What does Potter know of the value of books like these?  

“One more.  A French one -”

" _Les Elixirs Anciennes_ ," Severus says quickly, because of course it is.  He hopes that he is wrong, but is not so lucky.

"Yeah - wow, good guess."

“Absurd.  Unbelievable! Who are they employing for security, infants?”

“I can’t tell you.  But the librarian I spoke to seemed about as upset as you are right now.  When I showed her our missing page, I thought she was going to murder me.  She still isn’t quite convinced that I’m not the one who’s doing it.”

“A cursory glance through your library of Quidditch magazines would set her to rights.  Obviously you aren’t the academic type -”

“Yes well, we can’t all be - wait.  What?”

Severus replays the previous sentence.  He wets his lips.  He was a spy once, wasn’t he? However in God’s name did he survive.

“How do you know what my library looks like?” Potter continues, brows knitting together. 

“I - it was - an acquaintance of mine wanted to visit the new painting.  I was not aware of the location of the painting in question, not until after the fact. I did not intend to impinge upon your privacy.”  No, no, this is too much like an apology, this is too close to an admission of guilt.  Sneer, you fool, scowl, or the boy will know, will know _everything -_

Will know what? Severus asks himself, wondering where those last words came from.  What could he possibly have to hide from Potter?  What secrets could a dead man have at all?  

“It’s fine,” Potter says quickly, looking far too amused.  “Don’t worry about it.  You -and your acquaintance or whatever - are welcome anytime.  Only wish I had picked up a bit before you saw the place.  I’m not much of a housekeeper.”

“How utterly shocking.  I cannot articulate just how shocked I am.”

Potter breaths a laugh, before sneezing suddenly, almost knocking the glasses off his face.  “Sorry.  Think I caught something in London.  Anyway, the library books.”

The books.  Of course.  

“Whoever it is, taking pages from them -” Potter looks distinctly uncomfortable.  “You don’t think they’re a student here, do you?  If they’re stealing your ingredients to brew a potion that you said yourself was Dark Magic -”

“I did not say Dark.  I said it was complicated.”

“How complicated exactly?  Could a student do it, or should we be looking suspiciously at Sinistra?”

“It could not be a student,” Severus says, more to convince himself.  “There are very few I can imagine having the skills to both steal from the rare books section of Will and the wherewithal to do anything with the information they procured.”

“If you saw the books, would you know what was on the missing pages?”

“I - perhaps.  I cannot say.  I read them ages ago, I do not have their contents memorized.”

“What about - the potions store room?  If we figured out everything that had been taken or messed about with, could you guess what they were making?”

Potter has too much faith in Severus’ abilities, that much is obvious.  There is no way to determine with any specificity the way particular ingredients might be combined and used, particularly when there is the possibility that the thief is also purloining ingredients from elsewhere, or perhaps buying their own.  There are a limitless number of choices, and Potter’s expectations are impossibly high.  And yet, Severus feels the odd desire to live up to them, to tell Potter that he is capable of anything.

“I can make the attempt.”

“Brilliant,” Potter says, and the word should not affect Severus the way that it does.  “Any news from Alcott?”

“I should say not.”

“Right.  Well - I might have a bit of a lie in tonight, try to stop this cold before it starts.  But I’ll meet you upstairs tomorrow, yeah?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Potter repeats softly.   

Severus watches him go.

They meet the next night, where they determine that the fluxweed has gone off, the Red Myrrh has been diluted with olive oil, and the Bulbadox juice is missing completely.  Severus jots the details down on the piece of parchment he brought with him, mind already attempting to slot unmatched pieces into place.  There are any number of things that could be brewed with these ingredients, in combination or otherwise.  Potter’s eyes are watery, and he heads off to bed earlier than usual, which Severus should be glad about.  At least the boy is getting sleep.  

Severus, on the other hand -

That night he stays awake, watching the slow crawl of shadows in the hallway by his portrait, creeping tendrils that look like like fingers.  Red Myrrh.  Bulbadox juice.  Salamander blood.  Bicorn horn.

If someone is brewing Old Magic potions in this school, the least they could do is let Severus supervise.

No more than a week has gone by before Evelyn returns, a black and red scarf wound around his neck.

“It’s for the Stonewall Stormers.  They’re from Canada!  Your friend knit it for me.”

“My - who?” The list is so short that Severus should have no trouble narrowing down the possible candidates.  Surely not -

“Mr. Dumbledore!  He brought it to my portrait and everything.  It’s a Christmas present!  I don’t believe I’ve had a Christmas present before.  He said it’s on account of me keeping you out of trouble, which is ever so kind of him.   He’s knitting one for you as well - oh, I hope we’ll match!”

Severus has a brief pang of guilt regarding his lack of contact with Albus over these past few months.  He has no one to blame but himself, and the sharp blade that  the old wizard’s limitless kindness and patience carves into his stomach.

“It’s a Quidditch scarf,” Evelyn continues. “For when we watch the game together!”

There it is.  Albus, you old meddler.

“I do not think - no,” Severus says quickly, clearing his throat.  “That painting is in someone’s private quarters.  To visit it uninvited is a gross infringement of Professor Potter’s privacy,” and sweet Merlin, if that title doesn’t catch like a bad joke in his throat.  

“But he told me I could visit any time!  He was quite friendly, once I got brave enough to speak to him.  Oh, can’t we go?  He’ll be at class now, anyway.  This is when he observes lessons - not that I’ve been keeping track of him.  I would never!” Evelyn laughs a bit too shrilly at this, and Severus narrows his eyes in suspicion.  “It could be your Christmas present to me.  I expect I’ll get loads this year.”

Albus had created a monster, that much is clear.

“If we go this one time, do you promise not to pester me until the New Year?”

“I truly do!”

“And no more stalking Professor Potter through the corridors.  It isn’t healthy for a boy your age.”

“Must I wait until I’m as old as you?  That’ll take forever!”

“I do not stalk Potter.  I simply - we are -”

“You’re friends,” Evelyn supplies brightly.  “I know.”

Severus has no reply to this.  Evelyn is wrong, so very wrong, but Severus cannot bring himself to tell the child as much.  

“I will stay for fifteen minutes and fifteen minutes only.  After that, you may remain as you wish, but I am not your minder.”

This seems to be enough for Evelyn, and when they arrive at the painting, the child is every bit as delighted as he was previously.  Severus, however, cannot seem to relax, and though the Quidditch players soar above him and the spectators cheer and shout, he can hear something - something soft and steady in the background, a quiet rumbling that was not there before.  As if someone is - as if -

Severus looks out into Potter’s chambers, forcing his eyes to focus.

As it happens, Potter is not in class.  

There are crumpled up tissues on the floor and several glasses of water and pumpkin juice arranged on his night table.  The boy is sleeping on his stomach, mouth open and snoring slightly.  He looks a bit feverish and his nose is red; evidently he _did_ bring something back from London.  Severus has a brief and panicked memory of their nights testing ingredients (“When I get all sorts of unspeakable diseases from this, it’ll be up to you to save me.”) but he clenches his fist around it.  Potter has a cold, it’s obscenely normal.  

“Oh no, Mr. Snape,” Evelyn whispers, and Potter thankfully does not stir.  “I don’t want to in-infring- what was the big word that you used?”

“Infringe,” Severus says absently, because the hair at the back of Potter’s neck is curled softly with sweat, and the fingers of the boy’s right hand are twitching in his sleep.  Severus wonders whether Harry dreams, and what he dreams about.  A slice of winter sunlight spills across the heavy quilt, and Severus feels as if - as if for a moment, he is so present, so electric, that if he wanted to reach out he could.  If he wanted to step out of this frame and walk across the room to where Harry Potter lies sleeping - he could.  He can almost feel the boy’s damp hair beneath his palm.

“Mr. Snape,” Evelyn hisses again - and the moment is over.  Severus is a man made of oil and pigment and spite, and he will never leave this frame or any other.

He does not say a word as he turns and leaves the painting, Evelyn trailing behind him.  When they arrive back in Severus’ portrait, Evelyn gives him an odd, nervous glance before leaving without saying a word.  Severus cannot pretend he’s sorry about it.  He feels like he’s been hit squarely in the breastbone, a dull and savage blow that knocked the breath from his lungs.  He sits down because he has no other choice, hands clenching into fists against his knees. 

He is dead.  Dead.  And Harry sodding Potter is -

Is -

Is completely -

Lovely.

Severus thinks he might be ill.

He knew all this, of course, knew the boy had some sort of appeal, judging from the covers of _Witch Weekly_ and the _Prophet_.  He knows Potter is powerful, and that there are always those who are drawn to power; he knows Potter is famous, and there are lines of people who would blind themselves for a taste of that acclaim, that notice.  Severus has never personally seen it, but he knows - in a second-hand sort of general awareness - that Potter is not a hideous troll, wasn’t bullied at school for his hair or his clothing or his bone structure in the way that Severus was.  But it is one thing to have that awareness and another to - to -

No.  Surely not. 

Severus wonders, with a dizzying surge of panic, how long this has been lurking within him, how long he has been watching Potter on the nights they spend together (fingers on his cuff, sunlight of his laugher, lilacs and blood along the roof of Severus’ gasping mouth “who won who won -”)

“No,” Severus says, this time aloud.  The single word seems to shatter the stillness of his portrait, bounces off the walls in a thousand echoed fragments of _no no no_.  Lily’s sodding son.  The arrogant Gryffindor brat that somehow, against all odds, walked to meet his death and walked back still breathing.  The only one who came to look for Severus’ body, but came seconds too late.

That is the key in this revolting puzzle, Severus decides. He didn’t survive the War, and Potter did.  What does it matter whether or not he finds the boy lovely, what does it matter if he has brief, feverish thoughts about the hair on the back of his neck?  Surely his thoughts are his own (at _last_ ), just as they are insignificant.  Lily’s son is safe from him, he thinks, while simultaneously trying to to drown out the voice of his inner-panic, that soft malicious whisper of _you want him young enough to be your son you monster if Albus knew if Potter KNEW -_

He breathes through the wave of self-loathing, ignoring the way his breath hitches like a sob at the end.  He is dead, and the boy is not, and in the end, what does it matter?  Perhaps if he were alive he might keep his distance from Potter, call himself an old and ugly fool, curse this sudden longing as hopeless, as hideous.

Instead, he returns to the seaside scene in the main staircase.  

It is mid-afternoon, and the sky is clear and grey.  Severus wades up to his knees in the cold water, hissing as softly as he can manage.  After he’s adjusted to the temperature, he wades in deeper, spine curving with the cold.  The waves lap at his ribs, saturating the fabric of his robes until they’re like weights against his shoulders and his arms.  Severus bends and feels along the ocean floor for stones.  

“Of all the ridiculous, pathetic, _useless_ things to happen,” he murmurs to himself, fingers raking paths through the seabed.  

He finds only smooth sand and the occasional clamshell, nothing substantial enough to fill one’s pockets.

“Lovely,” he says after a moment, straightening up.  His wet clothes cling icily to his skin, and if he squints his eyes he swears he can see painted canvas somewhere far off in the distance, heavy brushstrokes of blue and green and red, the colour of the end of the world.

He stands there for a long time.

Severus does not see Potter for several days.   He cannot say he minds so much.  The upcoming Christmas holidays and accompanying onslaught of marking have Potter working late into the night, and Severus does not particularly wish to speak to the boy until he has gotten over this strange and sudden delusion - this complete loss of control.  He avoids his own portrait at night, should Potter feel the sudden urge to visit.  He avoids the potions store room, should Potter seek him there.  Most likely the boy does not, but Severus isn’t willing to take any chances.  During those times when Potter is in class (or still bundled up and sniffling in his bed) Severus sits at his desk, scribbling down possible potions that could result from the ingredients they have examined so far.  The list is several pages long.  The task is an impossible one, but still he writes.  It is the only way he is able to keep his mind from certain things, and he is grateful for the diversion, even if it is completely fruitless.

_Dreamless sleep._

_Polyjuice._

_Antivenin._

Two weeks before Christmas, there is a staff holiday function.  The school is full of guests, and Severus has to leap behind an elm tree to avoid Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, come to call on the third in their trio.  They disappear into the Great Hall, and Severus promptly heads down toward the dungeons.  Lately he feels as if he is a fugitive from justice with the way he is constantly in motion, perpetually in hiding.  Minerva herself came to visit him twice in the last week, and both times he pretended he was asleep (he isn’t prepared to speak to anyone with a pulse just yet, certain that even the lines beneath his eyes will betray him.)  That night, he leaves his portrait once again, in case Potter should come and suggest a walk.  Severus wanders the hallways on his own, and when he hears his name spoken softly, he cannot be blamed for creeping closer, seeking out its source.  It is no more than anyone would do.  

“Seriously, Snape?  You heard him, ‘Mione  That’s - it’s odd, isn’t it?”

Severus peers out from behind a table piled high with rotting fruit and bones - a painfully obvious _Memento Mori_.  In the lamplight, he can make out the shine of red hair and halo of frizzy curls.  Granger and Weasley, up to something once again.  Their faces are very close together, voices lowered, but they are fools if they believe that no one is listening.

“It’s good that they’re making a connection,” Granger says vaguely. “At least Harry isn’t alone -”

“No, he’s spending all his time with a bloody portrait.  That’s real healthy.”

Severus makes himself go very quiet and very still.  He steps backward, into the shadows of the painting.  He waits.

“But you heard him.  He’s getting more control, he isn’t having nightmares.  However it’s happening, I’d say it’s an improvement.”

“But Snape?  Really?  I don’t understand how he could possibly - Snape is dead.   Harry needs to spend time with people who are - who are not dead.”  

“What a compelling argument,” Granger says dryly.  

“Oh, don’t give me that.  You know it’s not normal.  He hasn’t been to visit George even though he lives in the next bloody town, he hasn’t so much as spoken to Gin since they split -”

Severus jerks his head up sharply at this, and then tries to pretend he didn’t.

“He won’t even come visit for Christmas, going on about all the work he and Snape have to do -”

“Ron, it’s -”

“It’s bloody weird, is what it is.  Honestly.  I think he needs counseling or summat, because this isn’t like him.”

The Granger girl looks thoughtful, which must be difficult in the face of such bleating ginger ignorance.  Severus finds himself holding his breath.  He should not be witness to this conversation, should not be learning things the Potter chooses not to tell him.   Then again, perhaps the boy should have friends that take a bit more care with his privacy.  

_Potter and the Weasley girl are no longer together.  Potter is spending all his time with you - you, a dead man.  A ghost.  Less than a ghost._

“I’ll talk to him,” Granger decides, and Severus slams his eyelids shut.  She will talk to him.  “I’ll see if I can convince him to come for Christmas.  You’re right it’s - there’s something about Snape he’s never been able to let go of, something he seems so fixated on.  Even before Harry got his memories, even before the Shrieking Shack - he was always watching him.  And then after, he became almost fanatical.”

“Remember that pub in York?  I thought he was going to kill those blokes.  Going on about Death Eater this and traitor that - I had to pull him off the one chap, Jesus.”

Jesus, Severus repeats silently.  He wills himself to walk away, wills himself to be the sort of person who does not spy on former students, who does not listen to the intimate and hidden details of the Chosen One’s personal life (and how long has it been since he’s used that title, how long has it been since he’s thought of Potter as anything other than Harry, _Harry -_ )

“I used to think it was all misplaced guilt, maybe.  You know Harry and his saving-people thing.  But you don’t think -” Granger stops abruptly.

“What?”

“You don’t think he - and Snape -” The girl looks briefly like she’d rather be doing anything else.  “Do you think Harry _likes_ him?”

Weasley’s eyes go about as large as Severus’ own, the two of them choking on whatever air is somehow in their lungs.  Severus’ brain is full of static, a buzzing violence that obscures all rational thought ( _no of course not of course -_ )

“No!” Weasley exclaims, almost an echo.  “How could you think - no, God no.  Don’t even joke, I’ll be ill.”

“I suppose it’s a little ridiculous.”

“A little?  Christ, ‘Mione, don’t say those sorts of things.  Can you imagine?  No, he’s obviously lonely and - and the whole guilt thing, like you were saying.  He was just dating my sister all of two months ago, let’s give the bloke some credit.”

Severus has heard enough.  If he stays any longer, Weasley will no doubt continue in a similar fashion, and Severus only has the stomach for so much.  He retreats to his portrait, resisting the urge to hide beneath his desk and bury his face in his hands.  He breathes through the panic once again, and when he can finally stand up straight without choking, he decides that something will have to be done.  Granger and Weasley’s concern is not ill-founded, and if Potter’s erstwhile friends are taking notice, others may be as well.  Severus has indulged the boy shamefully in allowing this - fraternization to continue.  Perhaps it was hidden beneath the guise of having a purpose - of aiding Potter in finding sleep, of examining the contents of the potions store room.  But Alcott Prawn is more than capable (well, that may be too generous) of continuing the project, and Potter is sleeping better of late.  It is time Severus - it is time he made his position clear.  Despite the vandalized books and the outrage that gnaws at Severus' heels, despite the nights spent walking through forests and restaurants and fields full of wildflowers - Potter is not his friend.  Potter is nothing to him.

For the next few nights, he does not leave his portrait.  He waits, gritting his teeth, and if he thinks he is prepared to see the boy again, he realizes he is mistaken the moment Potter’s shadow falls across the corridor.  Potter’s face is flushed with cold and there are snowflakes on the shoulders of his wool coat.  He smiles, and Severus feels something crack in the vicinity of his ribs (he breathes through the panic.)

“Hi,” Potter says softly, drawing closer.  “Where have you been hiding?  Feels like we kept missing each other.”

This is an opportunity that Severus - if he were still living - would not have wasted.  He can feel each cutting remark simmering, unspoken, on his tongue: 

_Shockingly, I do not have the time to simply wait upon the whims of the Chosen One._

_You assume that my absence was unintentional._

_Surely you do not believe your company to be that compelling._

Strangely, in the moment, Severus finds he does not wish to speak.  Give him one minute more, just one minute of Harry Potter’s open smile and kind regard.  Just one more minute before Severus sends it all to hell.

“I have been otherwise engaged,” he says dumbly.  Potter seems to accept it.

“Of course.  My friends were here visiting, anyway, and I’ve been marking papers for Professor Zhang.  It’s busy for everyone, what with Christmas coming up.”

As if Potter thinks portraits care remotely about Christmas, one way or the other.  It would be slightly charming if it weren’t so pathetic.  

“Just said goodbye to Ron and Hermione.  I’m staying here over the holidays, so I won’t see them for awhile.” 

“Won’t they lament your absence?”

“They’ve got their own family things going on.  I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything.  And I don’t feel that welcome at the Burrow since - well.”

That ‘well’ rises like a brick tower over Severus’ curiosity, and it is none of his business - it certainly is not - but for some reason he wants to hear it from the boy directly.

“And Miss Weasley?” For Merlin’s sake, Severus stop _stop_ \- “Surely she will require your presence.”

Potter gives him an oddly assessing look, hesitating a moment before he answers.

“Ginny and I - we aren’t together.  Anymore. We haven’t been since Aberforth’s funeral.  It wasn’t spectacular timing but it’d probably been coming for - why am I telling you this?  Sorry, I’m - sorry.”

“Oh,” is all Severus can manage.

“You needn’t look so -” Potter meets Severus’ gaze and his words dry up, lips parting slightly and Severus bloody Snape stop looking at his lips, think of something to say, _something -_

Severus cannot.  His mind has gone as clear and depthless and Potter’s eyes, the wide green of them, fringed in black.

“It’s - all right,” Potter says at last, breaking the odd, suffocating moment.  “I’m okay, actually.  I’m sure you don’t exactly care, and I don’t know why I’m telling you this - and somehow I’m still talking, you should really really stop me, why haven’t you -”

“Miss Weasley regrets her decision, I am sure.  And if she does not presently, she will.”

Potter looks shocked for a split second, though he cannot be as shocked as Severus feels.

“That is - possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Please refrain from thanking me.  Or discussing it, or mentioning it ever, or recalling it fondly in your lonely, sleepless hours.”  

“Of course not.  Wouldn’t dream of it.”  Potter runs a hand through his hair, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  He is fidgeting in the obvious manner that manifests whenever he is putting something off, or feeling nervous.  It is far too suspicious; the boy has the worst poker face in the world. “Look, I - this is ridiculous but - I got you a Christmas present.”

Severus’ mouth falls weakly open. “You didn’t.”

He has to end this, end this now.  Something has to be done.  

“I might have.  When I was in London with Hermione.  There was this chap outside Will selling -”

“Potter, I am _not alive_ ,” Severus snarls, months of wretched space and futile hope and pointless, pointless existence wrenching their way out of his body. “I live in a sodding portrait, I am one step up from a figment of your limited imagination, what in Merlin’s name could I possibly have use for?  I cannot own things, I cannot take things from you, and it does no good pretending that I am not - not -”

“Professor -”

“ _Dead_ , Potter.  I am dead.  Much as I try to ceaselessly remind you, much as you wiped my blood off your pristine hands, I am dead.  Even you can’t be so deluded as to forget this.”

Potter looks shell-shocked, eyes gone wide with panic and regret.  Severus knows the expression all too well, the “no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” that he remembers from his youth, from Lily Potter and a word hurled through the air like a flint-tipped arrow that could never be taken back.  Potter’s friends are right, the boy is spending too much time with him and it is unhealthy - this is for Potter’s own good, it is _necessary_ -

“I’m sorry,” the boy murmurs, “I didn’t think it would be -”

“How shocking, you didn’t _think._ That certainly is a first where you’re concerned.”

“You’re being particularly nasty right now.”

“No, I’m being honest.  I’m seeing sense for the first time in ages, though I would not expect the same from you.  I have - humoured your delusions of kinship and coddled you through your bad dreams, but this cannot continue.”

“You don’t mean that,” Potter quickly interrupts, and Severus wishes the boy’s faith was more easily shaken. “Wait, did someone - did Hermione say -”

Potter stops his sentence suddenly, eyes going wide as moons behind his spectacles.

“Did Miss Granger say what?”

"What?" Potter repeats.  He looks terrified and Severus tastes alarm at the back of his throat. "Nothing, never mind."

“No one said anything to me.” Severus forges ahead, trying to shake the unsettling feeling that Potter is concealing something critical from him.  “You flatter yourself that us lesser mortals have only discussions of you with which to occupy our time.”

“I don’t,” Potter hisses, “I don’t and you know that.  Why are you being like this?  I thought that we had - I thought -”

“And _I_ thought you had enough sense to differentiate the living from the dead, and kindness from pity.” Severus draws on the worst parts of himself, the way one sucks poison from a snake bite (you may not die in the end, but there will always be blood in your mouth). “The more fool I.  Of course, given the company I keep -”

Potter raises his hand, palm out, and Severus has a brief, searing vision of dragging his teeth across Potter’s lifeline before he recognizes the gesture for what it is.  Defeat.  

“Stop,” Potter murmurs, lips barely moving.  “All right?  Just stop.”

Severus stops.  He realizes that Potter’s eyes are shining, and tells himself it is just a trick of the lamplight.  When Potter is gone, Severus plans to see whether his knuckles will bleed if he repeatedly punches the cauldron on his desk, but until that time, Severus can only squeeze his hands into fists and _hate himself_ , hate himself utterly.  

“I really - liked spending time with you,” Potter continues in his soft, broken tone.  Then he laughs.  “Mad, right?  Thanks for - um - humouring me, I guess.”

Again, Severus says nothing.  He imagines the rough grit of iron on the white skin of his hands.  He imagines the spill of cold sunlight across Harry Potter’s quilt.

“Merry Christmas.”

Potter turns to go without looking at him, but has only taken a few steps before he suddenly turns back.  Severus does not know what to expect, but he certainly isn’t expecting the boy to reach into his bag and retrieve a small flat parcel, wrapped in green paper.  Fingers shaking, Potter tears the paper off, stuffing it carelessly into his bag before shoving its contents towards Severus.

“It’s a painting, okay?  It was a painting.  Jesus.”

He tosses the small framed painting on the ground before Severus can get a proper look at it, and is gone with a sharp echo of footprints.  They ring in Severus’ ears long after Potter has disappeared from sight.  

Good.  

Severus is glad he’s gone.

Good.

Potter’s gift lies on the ground beneath Severus’ portrait.  He cannot see it.  Perhaps if there was a painting across the hall, but there are few in the dungeons.  Severus tells himself he does not care, and is content to wait until Filch or another member of the faculty wanders past and tosses it in the rubbish bin.  Unfortunately for everyone involved, the first visitor Severus receives is the lamentable Alcott Prawn.

“You’ll be pleased to know that you were - er- indeed correct in your suspicions,” he says by way of greeting, voice only trembling slightly.  

It has been six hours since Potter’s departure, and Severus can still hear his footsteps.

“I haven’t been sitting idly by, oh heavens no.  A bit of experimentation revealed that the salamander blood had been diluted - with water of all things!  And you were right about the saffron as - oh, what’s this?”

Severus has not yet deigned to speak to him.  He glances up to see Alcott holding a small painting in his hand.  The frame is simple dark wood, and it is no bigger than a paperback novel.  

“How charming,” the man exclaims, smiling nervously at Severus.  “Is this yours?”

“Yes, just one piece from my vast art collection.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not.  I am a portrait, in case it has slipped your bloody notice.”

Prawn turns an ugly shade of red.  “Oh.  Yes, yes of course.  Um - did it just tumble off the wall here?  Shall I set it to rights? I wouldn’t want you to be without your - er, neighbour.”

Jesus wept.  “Take it with you or burn it or sell it for pocket change, I do not care.  Some imbecile left it here.”

“It’s a train,” Alcott says, and for the first time, Severus finds his gaze drawn to it.  Alcott is correct; the painting depicts a tiny, furnished train compartment.  There is a wooden desk on one end, and several plush armchairs on the other, separated by a tiered brass tea cart.  Heavy brocade drapes hang over the large windows, but they are pulled back, revealing green hills and clear skies, the scenery constantly shifting and changing.  Now there are a few patches of purple heather, now a cluster of bleating sheep.  Severus feels the urge to press his hand up against the window and leave fingerprints on the glass.

( _“Wish I could tuck you in my bag and take you on the train or something,” Potter says, eyebrows knitting together while Severus is slowly battered by waves._

_“I regret that I am quite beyond your help.”)_

“Lovely,” Alcott says again, and Severus wants to choke himself with that word. “I think this might suit the potions classroom, just above my -”

“Is there a reason for this visit?” Severus spits, unable to hear any more. “Or have you simply come to share your opinion on the random bits of detritus that litter these school corridors?  Perhaps you have taken over Filch’s duties as caretaker, since he seems infinitely more qualified for your position.”

“Now I say, that isn’t very friendly.  I simply wanted to keep you informed about the outcomes of the ingredient testing -”

“Consider me informed.  Good day, Professor Prawn.”

“Well,” Alcott grumbles, tucking the painting under his arm and turning on his heel.  

Severus scowls after him, grinds his teeth together, and waits until just after midnight before seeking out the potions classroom.  

It is a beautiful painting, when one examines it in closer proximity.  Severus sits on the armchair by the window, pours himself a steaming cup of tea, and watches the world go by.  The day has faded to night, and through the glass he can see the occasional pinprick of constellations, the shimmer of water as it reflects the large and lambent moon.  

The canvas is perfectly sized for transportation, could fit easily in a suitcase or satchel.  One could travel in this painting.  See the Wizarding Library of London, see the ocean, see a million rooms that do not have artwork cluttering their walls.  It would be a bit akin to a dog traveling in a purse, and it says something terrible about Severus’ failing dignity that he is even considering such a thing.  Still - it is a thought.

He leans back against the armchair, lets the quiet hum of travel wash over him.  When was the last time he had been on a train?  It must have been the summer before he took over as Headmaster, taking the London Midland up to Spinner’s End while Harry Potter was somewhere far away, saving the world.

When Severus opens his eyes, sunlight is filtering through the window, and students are filtering through the doors of the potions class.  He cannot remember a time he slept so soundly and deeply - when he was living or otherwise.  He strangely does not wish to leave, but at the first sight of Prawn he flings himself out of the chair and flees to his own portrait.  

All in all, Potter’s present is surprisingly - adequate.  Severus feels the reckless and impossible urge to tell the boy as much, but of course he will not.  Potter has undoubtedly come to his senses and sworn off any further contact between them; neither can Severus bring himself to face the injured crease of Potter’s eyebrows, the sad and hopeful smile that will curve across his mouth, his furious indignation and then grudging acceptance and then - then -

No.  Severus cannot bear it.

But that does not mean he cannot do something for Potter in return (Severus latches onto that idea like roots gripping soil.)  He will do something for Potter, something small and secretive, something the boy can never trace back to Severus but will appreciate nonetheless. He cannot be the object of Potter’s gratitude, and he cannot look at him without flinching, but he can do _something_ , repay the boy somehow.  

The next night, he returns to the train compartment, staring out the window while his stray thoughts knit themselves into webs.  The night after, and the night after that - Severus drums idly against the glass, and is gratified to see the fingerprints left behind (paintings are altogether too pristine, too unmarked, and Severus longs more than anything for the grease and grit of ugly, complicated _life_.)  This is when he realizes what Potter needs.   The boy has been locked up in high towers for too long, been cloaked in the trauma of violence and the weight of expectation for nearly his entire life.  Potter can hide no longer.  He needs to live.

Severus makes a decision.  If Granger and Weasley think Potter is isolating himself, there is only one way forward.  For once, Severus is --

* * *

\-- not prepared for the moment he sees his professor again.   

 


End file.
